


The Marble King

by lammermoorian



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, gleeful abuse of italics, idiots to lovers, it's about the domes, magnus is there too, no beta we die like men, the great european road trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 106,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26474734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: Constantinople, 1453After the fall of an empire, Perseus, son of Poseidon, and Annabeth Fredriksdotter, daughter of Athena, must put aside old rivalries if they are to survive in this strange new world.Medieval/Renaissance AU.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson
Comments: 115
Kudos: 270
Collections: Historic Demigod AUs, percy jackson fanfic recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the Ottoman Empire are the antagonists by necessity only. The Ottoman Empire also no longer exists.

The end of the world began the evening of the 22nd of May, Anno Mundi 6961. Perseus, who usually never had a head for such things, would mark the date indelibly in his heart for the rest of his life. 

That night, the moon had risen, dark and eclipsed, and the men around him on the walls had shuddered, marking themselves with the sign of the cross. “An ill omen,” they muttered, fearful. “A portent of evil, surely.”

Surrounded on all sides by the Ottomans, Percy certainly couldn’t see how it might be otherwise. Amongst the rising smoke of prayer which surrounded him, Percy sent up his own. _Poliouchos, Brotoloigos, be with our swords. Sthenios, guard your people here. Ennosigaios,_ he prayed, lifting his face to the dark moon, _Father. May I bring honor to your name_.

The night passed without further incident, but Percy could feel it coming, the way he could feel the earth shift beneath his feet, or the storms rolling in from the sea. What “it” could possibly be, however--that was the question. 

It felt somewhat futile to pray to his father, and the rest of the Olympians. Though they had answered him in the past, though his father had sent him more signs and gifts and summons than any other demigod he had ever known, the gods had, of late, been strangely silent. This was not terribly unusual in and of itself--most children like him rarely ever heard from their divine, yet distant, mothers and fathers--yet even Percy found his attempts at conversation thoroughly rebuffed. The rainbow messages would not reach their recipients. There was not a single satyr or faun to be found in the whole of the city. The nereids of the Bosphorus had vanished without a trace. Perhaps most concerning, he had not even heard from his cyclops brother in quite some time. It was certainly a question he wished to pose to Chiron, but Percy simply had not had an opportunity to visit camp, what with all that had been going on.

The journey to Sigeion was not so long and arduous, merely two or three days at most, even if he chose to travel over land rather than shortcut through Marmara, but Percy simply could not afford to leave at this time. Not with all their many and varied enemies closing in on them.

Leaving his fellow men to mutter and pray amongst themselves, he turned to view his city for himself, leaning between the merlons of the battlement, resting his arms on the lip of the embrasure. Even from here, one could see the dome of St. Sophia rising over the peak of the first hill, even in the darkened moonlight, silvery and silent and still. He looked above, to the jeweled night sky, and wondered, not for the first time, for what purpose was this divine silence that they suffered here.

He received no answer, of course, not that night, and not for three nights afterwards. 

On the fourth day, he had been forcibly shuffled off his post by his commander, who ordered him to get out and get some rest, after he had endured the very worst of the previous day’s rain and hail. The commander was but a mortal, but a damn good one, with a mind like Athena and a war cry like Ares, and arguing with him was a relatively useless proposition, despite the fact that, if pushed, Percy could rout his whole cohort. But he acquitted, and had spent his free evening walking up and down the misty, ghostlike streets of Constantinople. Hymns and prayers were sung behind every door, a litany of pleas, a symphony of sobs, a catalogue of wishes, all to the god of the Christians and to this god’s holy mother, which only made Percy more melancholy. How long had it been since he had seen his own mother? He had sent her away before the siege had begun, her and her husband and his half-sister, praying that his father had had enough continued affection for his one-time lover to see her and her family to safer shores, wherever they may be.

Small comforts.

Overcome with melancholy, he did not realize that his pilgrimage had brought him to the walls and domes of St. Sophia, the tether to Olympus. They were always a sight to behold, he thought ruefully, as facts he had never cared to learn himself surfaced from the recesses of his memory, even if he could not quite see them through all this damned mist. The mathematics of it was, in truth, quite beyond him, but still he could hear her voice as she explained, for the hundredth time, how the dome had been expertly balanced upon the pendentives, which then thusly bore the gargantuan weight downwards, how the forty windows gave the impression to the mortals that the dome floated above the cathedral, which of course it did, in a manner of speaking, hung on a silver thread from the heavens, how she had been quite nice when she hadn’t been an insufferable daughter of Athena--

“Percy?”

He turned, not to the blonde hair that he had half expected he would see, but to hair as red as firelight, the starkness turning her pale face even paler. “Rachael?”

“Oh, it is you!” And she leapt on him in an embrace that would have shocked the people around them, if they had cared to lift their heads from their unceasing prayer. “I cannot begin to tell how glad I am to see you.”

“And I you,” he said, returning her embrace. They no longer had any awkwardness between them, and had not for years--and thanks be to the gods for that. What had once been a fumbling, awkward romance had blossomed instead into a deep, solid friendship, one that he was most grateful for. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong at camp?”

She shook her head. “No more or less wrong than the last time you were there. _Troia_ still stands, for the moment.”

That was not a reassuring answer. “Then what brings you to our fair city? And,” he frowned, suddenly confused. “We are under siege… how did you--”

“I had to come,” she said, turning towards the church, despite the mist which shrouded it from view. “I just had this feeling.”

Oh, her feelings were rarely ever good. “The Oracle?”

Rachael nodded. “She has been restless, as of late. She has not spoken through me in many years, though I can feel her stirring.”

“Perhaps it will be good news, this time.”

She looked at him, pityingly. “Dearest Perseus, surely even you know better than to court the Moirai in this manner.”

“What more can they do to me,” he replied, “than has already been done?”

They stood in silence for some time, contemplating on the odd circumstances which brought them to this place, at this moment. Around him, the prayers of the people never ceased, though in the thick, heavy fog which surrounded them, it seemed as though they were the only two real people in the square. He could see very little, but whatever Rachael could divine from the walls must have been fascinating, he assumed, whatever she could see with her special sight. 

“This mist,” she murmured. “It is strong, and unnatural.”

“I suspected as much.” Dense fog such as this was not a common occurrence in the city, so sudden and out of place that even the mortals had noticed it, another malignant augury to haunt them. “Can you see through it? Do you know what has caused it?”

As long as he had known her, Rachael had possessed quite the unique gift, to see truth clearly and without alteration. Magic spells and enchanted fog were no match for her, she who had once traversed the fabled Labyrinth, Ariadne’s thread made manifest in a young girl. She had even been able to see Olympus as it perched on top of the dome, the severed head of the mountain balanced perfectly on the point of a needle, even as he and his fellow demigods could see nothing. As the Oracle, she had lost none of her keenness, speaking prophecy as precisely, and as cuttingly, as she had always spoken truth to her friends. She was not one who believed in lies or falsehoods, or who would hide the truth for any mere convenience.

So he knew that the naked fear on her face was real when she turned to him and said, “I can see nothing but this wretched mist.”

There were not many monsters he knew of who could create an illusion so powerful as to shroud even the Oracle of Delphi; Hecate, perhaps, but why she would have deigned to show her face when the rest of the gods remained silent was very uncharacteristic of what he knew of the goddess. And he did not think that even she would still be so bitter as to side with the Ottomans in this instance. 

Faintly, through the thick net of psalms which enfolded the square, he heard those other voices, sharp and piercing in tone, yet rich and mellifluous in melody, floating to them from across the Golden Horn. By his count, this was the fourth time they had sung today; thus, the time was now evening, a little after sunset, if he was correct. 

“What is that strange singing?” asked his companion, tilting her head curiously to the source of the song.

“It is the enemy,” said Percy. “Five times daily they call out to their god in this manner.” The Ottoman prisoners they had captured continued to pray their daily prayers, even in captivity, with a fervency and a dedication which deeply impressed Percy’s captain, though had sorely disturbed Percy’s other, more brutish fellow men. Having heard it up close and far away for so long, he had nearly grown accustomed to the melody, and found it oddly comforting in its sharp, even predictability, in this other man’s faith which would not desert him as it had with some of his Christian captors.

“It’s beautiful,” Rachael whispered.

“It is,” he agreed. He was sure there was much more to say on that topic, but the fear and unease of the magical fog was too much to bear, and, truth be told, he was quite hungry. Perhaps they could debate this another time. “Do you have a place to stay? I wouldn’t trust an Inn at the moment, if I were you. My mother’s house has an extra bed; you will be well come there.”

But she did not hear him. 

He frowned, giving her arm the briefest of shakes. “Rachael?”

She stood, still as a statue, her gaze turned up to the dome, her mouth hanging open. There was not even a breath of wind to ruffle her wild hair. 

“Rachael?”

Her posture, already so straight, snapped even straighter, as though it were the string of a bow. Her head was thrown back, and she gazed sightlessly at the sky, her mouth open in a wordless shriek. He nearly toppled over as she fell onto him, her hands a death grip around his wrists. Green, sickly mist poured forth from her mouth, her eyes, her ears, and all around him in a horrible, deathless voice, the Oracle delivered its prophecy.

 _Tell the emperor_ , she gasped, in an ancient tongue that had not been heard for nearly a thousand years, _that my hall has fallen to the ground--Phoebos no longer has his house._ In this state, she attempted to claw her way up his body, her shaking hands reaching for his face, even as he tried to hold her at bay. _Nor his mantic bay, nor his prophetic spring._

His storm sense tingled, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, the sweet scent of flowers in the air. Thunder rumbled above them, even as the fog retreated, revealing the walls and domes of the church to the open air once again, and the mortals increased their plaintive wails. 

_The water has dried up!_ She shrieked, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. _Tell the emperor--all is ended!_

With an almighty crack, lightning struck over their heads, arcing with pinpoint precision onto the very tip of the dome. The receding mist lit up like gold and silver, like the celestial bronze of his secret sword, like the bright, blinding glow of a god’s truest form, one which mortal eyes were not able to comprehend, and in that light Percy thought he saw them, the twelve and the others, the hammer and the dove, the twin archers, the owl and the crown and all the rest, and for one terrible half of a heartbeat, there also he saw the trident, saw his father’s face turn from him in sorrow, and he could not feel the drag of Rachael’s fingers into his skin, nor hear the cries of the mortals as they beheld the terrible sight, though they could not understand what they saw, none but Percy could see how the gods fled the ancient city, leaving their people behind, leaving _Percy_ behind, to slaughter and to ruin.

And just as swiftly, the vision vanished. The fog had lifted entirely. Rachael collapsed into his arms, the spirit of prophecy having left her form, and he shook her as gently as he could. “Rachael, are you alright? Rachael?”

As though she were emerging from a dream, she groaned, her eyes shut tight. “Percy?” she grunted, shuddering in his grasp. “What--where--”

“You had a vision, it seems,” he said. “Can you remember any of it?”

She shook her head, blinking. “No… what did I say?”

“You spoke of the emperor.” It was likely that the man himself was within the very church, leading what was left of his people in more desperate prayer. “You said--”

But with a short, sharp scream, she cut off his words, and lifted one trembling finger to the sky. “Percy,” she gasped in fear and in terror, “Percy! Look!”

“You know that I cannot see as you do,” he said, though his gorge rose within him. “What? What is it?”

“Olympus,” she cried out, with all the passion of a child newly orphaned “Olympus! Olympus has gone!”

And his arms around her as she gazed upon the tortured scene that only she could see, he sent up his prayers once again, to Athena and Ares and Zeus, to the father that had always professed to love him above all his other children, his thoughts rising like smoke up to a sky suddenly devoid of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glossary for part 1, in order of appearance:  
> • Constantinople, 1453; the siege of Constantinople and the effective end of the 1500 year old Roman empire  
> • 6961 AM; the Byzantines used a different dating system from the Catholic Gregorian calendar (but the same month/day system)  
> • Poliouchos, Brotoloigos, Sthenios, Ennosigaios; epithets of Athena, Ares, Zeus, and Poseidon, respectively  
> • Sigeion; an ancient Greek city near the site of Troy  
> • the dome of St. Sophia; the Hagia Sophia (Khan Academy has an awesome video about the architecture of the Hagia Sophia [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XfpusWEd2jE))  
> • Troia; another name for Troy  
> • "Tell the emperor that my hall has fallen to the ground..."; the alleged last prophecies of the Oracle of Delphi, technically dated from around 400 AD and almost certainly Christian propaganda, but repurposed here, bc they sexie


	2. Chapter 2

No one had been able to sleep all night, the noise of the cannons was so loud. They echoed even here, on the opposite end of the city, fiery thunderclaps against a cloudless sky, inky, deep sea blue marred only by the dark grey smoke to the North. Percy knew, in theory, that the Gate of Eugenios was the most strategically sound place for a man like him, given his proclivity for and proficiency with naval combat, but here the ancient walls stood proudly, strongly against the water, unassailable and insurmountable. Not all of the city’s defenses had fared as strongly as these had. Had his commander allowed it, he would have repositioned himself elsewhere, where he knew the walls of Theodosius had suffered more devastating blows. 

He was not, in fact, useless on land, as some certain persons had once levied at him as an insult; he could be a great asset to the regiments further inland. But alas, he drew his power from the water, and so by the water he would remain, even if it drove him mad from the waiting.

The darkness of these small hours was oppressive, nearly smothering, and even their torches could not lift it off of their shoulders. From across the bay, Percy could see the lights of the Ottoman camps, flickering constellations outlining the dark, rocky coast, ringing the city in fire and fear. There was no reason to deny it--they were surrounded by their enemies--but if he dwelt on the thought for too long, he would not be able to keep his wits about him.

Now, what may actually drive him mad, he thought bitterly, was the incessant muttering of his fellow soldiers. 

“ _Theotóke Parthéne, chaíre, kecharitoméni María, o Kýrios metá soú_ ,” the man prayed for what must have been the thirtieth time. His face was streaked with dirt and dried tears, red eyes puffy and empty, clutching a black rope between his palms, worn and unravelling. Percy had listened to him weep for hours, and now all his fight was gone out of him. “ _Evlogiméni sý en gynaixí, kaí evlogiménos o karpós tís koilías sou, óti Sotíra_ …” He paused, drawing in a shuddering breath, and he did not continue, but the chant was then taken up by his Venetian brother: “ _Sancta Maria, Mater Dei_ \--”

“ _Malaka_ ,” Percy groaned, thumping his head against the wall. All this Greek and Latin bounced around inside of his head like a sword against a shield, preventing him from focusing on what was most important at this time, which was watching for the arrival of the Venetian ships which were supposed to be coming to their aid at any moment now. “Enough with the praying, already.”

But the words continued on, a litany of desperation. “ _Kyrie eleison_ ,” the men whispered, or sobbed, or mumbled to each other. “ _Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison._ ”

He wished he could tell these men what he knew, that the gods had abandoned this city days ago, that Percy had watched them depart in fear and haste, as Aeneas fled from Troy. If he had been able to speak to himself from years past, to the young man whose eyes had just been opened to a world beyond his mortal reckoning and a father he had never even dreamed was possible, he would not have believed his own words. There was much about himself now that that young man would not recognize, Percy thought, his dwindling faith chief among them. But perhaps these men of the trinity had it right; perhaps their god was made of sterner stuff than Percy’s, and would not desert his people. He vowed, possibly foolishly, that if the city would hold for even one night longer, he would consider shifting his allegiance from the Olympians to this _Pantokrator_ fellow.

Between the prayers and the boom of cannons, the noises of the city despairing and the ever present crashes of water against rock, he found his attention wandering, as was the curse of all children like him. Concentration required all of his faculties, and it was not his strongest skill. Things tended to get lost in space when his attention was divided all this way and that--it was no wonder that he didn’t hear the man until he and his entourage were practically on top of them.

“Make way! Make way!” 

At the base of the wall was a man, a wicked looking bolt jutting up from his chest, leaning on his fellow man for support, while his contingent fretted nervously behind him. Though his face was masked by his fancy helmet, Percy recognized the red cross on the white background, stark against the grimy metal, nearly gleaming in the dark night--as did his commander. “Giustiniani!” He shouted at the man beneath them. “What is the meaning of this!”

His red-plumed helmet lolled to the side, leaving it to his lieutenant to cry out the terrible news: “The wall has fallen! The Ottomans have got into the city!”

At the man’s words, Percy’s cohort erupted. Man scrambled over man in their haste to escape, scrambling down the towers and indeed the very walls in order to escape to the sea, where perhaps they may yet have been able to escape the slaughter which was surely coming. Their cries, thick and suffocating as prayer smoke, rose up around the noise of the oddly quiet city--surely, if the Turks had got in, as this man had claimed, the city would already be in such deadly disarray? Percy and his men were stationed at the exact opposite end of the city, they would have heard the conquest of Constantinople before they had seen it.

Quickly sparing a nasty thought to the useless Genoese, Percy leaned over the wall and shouted down, “Where?!” knowing better than to argue with him about the particulars. Not at this critical moment.

“San Romano!” he cried, hoisting his captain further up on his arm. “All is lost!”

For a single, breathless moment, the world went quiet around him, and he had one strange thought in his head: _good_ . The gate of St. Romanus lay at the top of the Seventh Hill, far from _Blachernae,_ where he knew the other remaining half-blood in the city had staked her claim.

Without thought to what the mortals might see, Perseus, son of Poseidon _Ennosigaios_ , drew not his father’s sword, that magical blade _Anaklusmos_ , but his mortal weapon of steel and stone, and leapt from his position on the Theodosian Walls, tumbling towards the ground with a perfect roll that would have made his mentor very proud. It did not take him too long to find a stray horse, nearly feral with terror, and calm her. Recognizing him as her lord’s son, the mare immediately bent to his gentle command, allowing him to swing himself upon her back, and be directed towards the _Mesoteichion_ , where the gate of St. Romanus allegedly lay under siege.

As he suspected, Giustiniani’s man had been lying. The streets, while full of panicked Romans, did not yet pour forth with vengeful Ottomans. If Percy were to arrive in time, he could pick up where Giustiniani had abandoned his post, he could rally the troops, he could fend off the invaders. The city of Constantine could be safe for another day. Perhaps, even, he could fend off this would-be conqueror entirely! The emperor would surely be pleased enough to grant him a command of his own, and he could set forth with his navy, retake the ancient lands, draw the gods back to their ancestral home above St. Sophia. He was not a vain man, nor particularly prideful, but even he was prone to bouts of great ambition. All heroes hungered for glory, in one form or another, for recognition from their parents and their peers, and what could be more deserving of recognition than restoring the glory of the _Rhomiaoi_ and the _Hellenes_? 

And yet, as he galloped through the streets of the city, there was a sinking feeling in his heart as he observed no fighting in the streets, though he could certainly hear the continuing boom of the cannons. He could see the dawn about to crest, the inky blue of the sky giving way to the grey and flushed pinks which heralded the coming of rosy-fingered Eos, so it was not the darkness which obscured his vision, despite the torches that lit the way from road to road. In fact, as he neared the walls surrounding the St. Romanus gate, he saw that there was no greater number of soldiers here than there had been in _ta Eugeniou_ ; rather, it seemed that the men of the Fifth Military Gate were holding the line as well as could be expected in times such as these. 

So where, then, was the source of the terror? What would have made a man like Giustiniani turn and flee? 

Closing his eyes, he cut off one of his senses in the futile hope that it would make his ears stronger. He could not sense battle so keenly, not like some of his fellow half-bloods could, who could sniff out a fight like food to a starving dog, but Percy was the son of the Earthshaker. Wheresoever the ground trembled, there, too, was his presence, in the tremors beneath the feet of all those who walked upon the land. The enemies’ cannons, manmade and terrible as they were, shook the ground with every piercing shot landed on the ancient walls, and he could feel it, a deep rattle in his bones which traveled from the horse beneath him into his legs, his spine, his skull. _North_ , the tremors told him, whispering into his ear, _follow us North, alongside of the wall_. 

North, then. He turned his horse, and rode, every step and gallop and canter carrying him further towards the enemy. And towards _her_ , he supposed, his counterpart here in Constantinople. Despite his best efforts, he knew her as well as he knew himself, and where the fighting was thickest, there would Annabeth Fredriksdotter be. As much as it painted him to admit it, in certain instances, she was the better fighter, and in all instances, she was the better strategist--though that couldn’t be helped, given her godly heritage, and a poor sap like Percy couldn’t hope to keep up with such a pedigree as hers, a daughter of Athena _Areia_. He had a feeling, however, that they would need each other if they were to survive this. 

Though Annabeth could more than hold her own against an invading army, still he urged his horse on as fast as she could. 

He had just crested the Sixth Hill when he thought he saw her, even in the dim light, as there were simply not many soldiers in the city of Constantinople with long, flowing blonde hair. In flashing celestial bronze armor, she looked like a human torch herself, surely striking terror into the hearts of the invaders. What was most concerning, though, was that she was nearly alone up on the wall. What little he could see around her did not make for a heartening portrait; most of her fellow men were dead, or must have deserted their posts. But there she was, as terrible and awesome as her mother, and something in Percy’s heart lifted at it, at the sight of her still standing. 

Directing his horse to the nearest tower, he slipped off of her back, giving her a pat on her heaving sides for her good work, blessing her as Poseidon’s son, and she thanked him for it, in the way that horses did, then he sprinted up the steps of the tower, two at a time. 

She must have been so focused on the fight that she did not hear him approach, nearly shooting him with a pilfered crossbow. “Oh,” she scowled, keeping her weapon leveled at his chest but her finger off of the trigger. “It’s you.”

Percy glared in turn. And to think, that he had thought he would be pleased to see her. “ _Skjaldmær_ ,” he greeted, the familiar jab tripping off of his tongue. “How goes the defense?”

“I shouldn’t expect you to know, _Phykios_ , having spent the entirety of the siege playing nice with the Latins,” she spat.

“Need I remind you that the boom chain has successfully kept out enemy fleets for thousands of years?”

“And need I remind _you_ that the enemy has rendered your little chain quite useless?” Even in the middle of battle, she still took the time to argue with him, her grey eyes flashing. “They dragged their boats over Galata!”

A fact with which he was all too aware. The enemy had indeed made a road of greased logs, moving their entire navy over the hill, bypassing the boom entirely. Though he could not reasonably have prevented it, he did try not to place too much of the blame on himself. Privately, he wondered if that mistake had been the catalyst for losing his father’s favor. “And how, pray tell, are your walls? I had thought you insisted they would be too strong to fall beneath their cannons.”

She flushed, a pretty pink. “As you can see,” she said, each word bitten off with sharp teeth, “they are still standing. They continue to serve their purpose--unlike your _malakes_ chain.”

Percy threw his hands in the air. At this rate, they could go on forever. “Enough! I did not abandon my post just to exchange barbs with you.”

“Then you should head back,” she snapped, “and leave me to my duty.”

“Giustiniani has fallen.”

She whipped her head to him, mouth open in shock. “What?”

“I saw him. He had been struck by a crossbow bolt, and he may very well be dead by morning. His man had sworn up and down that the Turks had broken the siege.”

Mouth twisted in a grimace, she shook her head, turning her gaze back to the invaders who swarmed outside of the walls. “Not yet, but even I must admit that the _Mesoteichion_ cannot last for much longer. Have the reinforcements arrived from Venice?”

It was his turn to deny, shaking his head. “With all this furor and rumor, I fear now they never will.”

She cursed again, condemning the gutless Latins to a long and painful rash. “Then we must hold the city.”

“Annabeth, even you cannot--”

“Do not dare presume to tell me what I can and cannot do,” she sneered. “I know you of old, Perseus. Can you not put aside our history for one day and work together for the common good?”

“I am!” He stepped towards her, uncaring of the crossbow still aimed squarely at his heart. “Annabeth, we cannot hold Constantinople. The gods have abandoned us to our fate.”

“My mother would never--”

“Rachael delivered a prophecy,” he said. She lowered her weapon, shocked--she knew as well as he did how rare that was nowadays. “And I had a vision. I saw… I saw them leave. I saw the gods as they departed from St. Sophia.”

Eyes wide, she shook her head, disbelieving. “No. No, that can’t be. You lie.”

“Do you truly think so low of me that I would lie to you about this?”

He held her gaze for a single, infinite moment, and though he had known her nearly all his life, he found that he couldn’t tell whether or not she would say “yes.”

Whatever she would say, however, he would never come to know.

Beneath them, the earth trembled violently, a quake so powerful it knocked her off of her feet, sending her stumbling into Percy’s arms, and the two of them back onto the wall walk, her body cushioned by his. Stunned as they were from the shock of the fall, they couldn’t even move from their position for several minutes as the dawning sun crept over them, bathing them in a red, bloody light.

Neither of them had the wherewithal to spare on their situation, however, as Annabeth eventually was able to raise herself up on her arms, her head twisting over her shoulder to look behind her. She blinked, her face unusually slack and soft for someone he knew to be as sharp as the dagger she carried. “The _Kerkoporta_ ,” she mumbled.

“Huh?” His ears were ringing still from the force of the blast. A cannonball must have struck near them. Shaking his head to clear it, the ringing was transmuted into screams and shouts, musical cries in a strangely familiar tongue, one he had heard spilling from the mouths of prisoners. 

“The _Kerkoporta_ ,” she said again, as if it were a riddle whose answer would become clearer the more she repeated it. “Percy, the _Kerkoporta_!”

The word must have meant something to her though, because she scrambled off of him, crawling over to the lip of the wall walk, nearly throwing herself off of it as she craned her neck to look. Whatever it was she saw, it was so horrible that she uttered a terrible, heaving sob.

“What?” He asked. “What is it?”

“The _Kerkoporta_ ,” she repeated, turning back to him, and he was shocked to see her face in the sunlight, caked in dust and grime, streaked with tears. “It had to have been. Percy, they--the gate, it--” With another cry of grief, she cut herself off, curling into herself, her hands coming up to grasp at her filthy hair. 

Stumbling to his feet, he lumbered over to her, his hands hovering over her shaking shoulders. All around him, the screams of the defending army echoed from every stone and corner, inextricably woven with the blowing of terrible horns, the pounding of hooves of pavement, the alien war cries of the invaders, the thumping of his blood in his ears, nearly drowning them all out. He couldn’t look. He couldn’t make himself look.

“Annabeth,” he murmured, placing his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t even jump at the feeling, or turn round to smack him for his insolence. “Annabeth, we need to leave.”

She shook her head, growling even as she hunched over, clutching her stomach as though she were about to be sick, as though something irreplaceable were pouring out of her, her hands attempting in vain to staunch the flow. “No,” she moaned, voice thick and angry, “I cannot leave.”

“Annabeth--”

“I will not leave,” she said, her voice rising in pitch and strength, “not until the city of the gods has been reclaimed, in the name of my mother, Athena _Polias_!” And she shrieked, like some kind of crazed, bloodied animal, hungry for flesh, for vengeance, for glory.

She would take him to the ground for what he was about to do to her, and she should, but for all of her admirable ferocity, it would get her killed at this time, and Percy could not abide that. He would not. Taking her by the shoulders, he lifted her up, pulling her up to eye level, and he shook her, short, sharp, once, twice, three times. “Annabeth!” he barked, pouring all of his force and his sway as the son of the sea god into his voice, whatever amount that might be. “Constantinople is lost. The gods have abandoned us.”

For a heart stopping moment, he thought she might not listen to him. Among his powers, this was not one he chose to exercise often. Many had told him that he had a certain draw to him, a kind of inexplicable allure which compelled all those who listened to obey him. It worked chiefly, he was sad to say, on the mortals of his regiment, who could not comprehend his divine parentage, but recognized that there was something strange and otherworldly about him nonetheless, and reacted as such. It had never worked on Annabeth, nor any other demigod, but specifically her. It had been theorized that the hatred their respective parents had for each other would cancel out any kind of charm they could cast--but desperate times were desperate times, and called for desperate action.

“The gods may have left us to our doom, but we do not have to let it swallow us whole. We _must_ escape--for Olympus, if not for ourselves.”

He had never been this close to her in his life, he realized, somewhere in the maelstrom of his thoughts. For much of their unhappy acquaintance, she had been taller than him, a fact he lamented as often as he could, and as loudly. But now he towered over her, nearly a full head, though he knew he would have been hard pressed to defeat her in a simple _pankration_ , without a weapon between the two of them. In her gleaming armor, dented from a thousand blows and strikes, she looked every inch the goddess she wished to emulate, radiating otherworldly light. 

Her messy hair whipped in the wind, the blonde curls darkened with ash and dirt, though strands of gold could still be seen, here and there. The thundercloud grey of her eyes shone, sparkling in the bloody dawn, steely, resolved. There was not a force in existence that could move her if she did not wish to be moved, no magical wind or mortal weapon, and as much as she had tormented him through his childhood, he had to admit to himself, in this moment, it was something he had always admired about her. 

A further blast of the enemy’s cannon shattered their moment, and they stumbled again. Her shoulders in his hands, she nodded, blowing out a shuddering breath. “ _Sỳn Athēnâi kaì kheîra kinei_ ,” she said, bowing her head.

“Along with Athena, move also your hand,” he repeated, the words of the fabulist as fresh in his memory as they were when she had first told them to him. “We will save ourselves, and fortune will follow.”

Removing herself from his grasp, she scrubbed at her eyes, letting out one final scream into her hands, and Percy tried not to dwell on the sudden emptiness of his embrace. “Fine,” she said, wiping her nose. “Do you have a plan to escape?”

He grimaced. “I do. And I apologize, in advance.”

She frowned. “What do you--”

Then she shrieked as he grabbed her around the waist and leapt once more from the wall, hoping that she recalled enough of her training to roll with him and land safely. “If we can make it to the Prosphorion Harbor,” he said, ignoring her glare as he swung up once more on his horse’s back, “I will be able to see us safely out of the bay.”

“With what ship?” 

“We will not require a ship.” Holding his left hand out to her, with his other, he drew _Anaklusmos_ , his senses alight with the sound and scents of steel on steel, of blood on stone. This is what they were bred for, their mentor had always told them, for battle and war. This was their destiny, and one he was happy to fulfill at this moment.

“How do you think you’re going to get past the Ottoman blockade without even a _malakes_ ship?”

“Safely.” He wiggled his fingers at her, growling when she did not take it. “Trust me, Annabeth.”

Snarling, teeth bared, she took his hand eventually, using him to swing herself up behind him. “Give me your sword.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You ride, I shall fight. Give me your sword.”

It was a sound plan. He handed it off to her, and kicked his heels. The horse, needing no further prompting, broke into a gallop, and they headed East through the city, into the red, bloody sunrise.

Percy kept his eyes straight ahead. He would not look at the scene which unfolded around him. He did not hear the screams of men and women, the cries of children, the snapping of beams as homes burned and churches were looted; he could not spare a glance to every flash of steel in the firelight, to every blurry shape that darted past them, for if he did, he would be lost, and he would have to cease in his flight in order to help them, no matter the cost. Is this what his father felt, when he turned his back on his people? Is this how the king of the gods was able to console himself as he fled the city, leaving them to ruin? And what of the trinity god, this _Pantokrator_ , whose name had been praised in this city for a thousand years? 

All gods were the same, he thus determined. Empty words and broken promises, the lot of them.

From behind him, Annabeth slashed at any oncoming enemies, keeping the attackers off of them with grace and brutality both. “Right!” she commanded, and he turned the horse, ducking down a back road, out of the way of an oncoming wave of Ottomans. “Turn left!” she would order, so that they could avoid a burning church. In this manner they wandered their way through the ruined city, inching ever closer to the bay. They passed women running with bread and gold clutched in their grasps, homes and buildings already burnt to the ground, a man in a purple cloak throwing himself into the fray, and on and on until they finally arrived at the harbor. As though being on a horse were repulsive to her, she threw herself off onto the ground, not even waiting for him to follow her, as she rushed to the water’s edge. 

He did not think she would abscond with his sword, so he took a moment to bless his horse once again, and to suggest that she head North, beyond the ruined walls of the conquered city, where she could be free and happy, unyoked by any man, and she bowed her head to him, before complying with his wishes.

A loud cry broke him from his reverie, and he turned to see a great big brute of a man, clutching his stomach as he fell to the ground. Annabeth brandished his sword as she did with any weapon she laid her hands on, with enormous skill. Though she favored the dagger, she was equally proficient with a longer blade, and it seemed that she only increased her talent every time he saw her fight--and yet she seemed not to notice the two men that advanced on her from behind. “Annabeth!” He called, running towards her.

On his shout, she pivoted, sword outstretched, cutting one but missing the other. Drawn by the noises, more men began to swarm, like flies to a corpse.

It did not matter that they were surrounded by mortals--they would make sense of what they had seen on this day somehow.

With a great yell, he focused his outstretched hands, calling on the power of the water in the harbor. It churned beneath the docks as though Percy possessed by the power of the moon itself, pushing and pulling as the waves grew higher and higher, until one wave towered over the rest. Wrapping his arms around Annabeth once more, he felt that familiar pull deep within the core of him, and the water reached out to them, wrapping them up like a mother’s embrace, pulling them into the sea. 

Annabeth, to her credit, did not thrash or scream beneath the waves, though she gasped in surprise as Percy extended his power to her, momentarily lending her the gift of breath underwater. Pushing them into the path of the current, the water cleaved around them as they were dragged out to the greater sea, passing beneath the greater ships of the Ottomans. In the water, he was granted with clearer, sharper vision, and it was only through the grace of his father that he was able to see the split boom chain, torn asunder, floating lifelessly in the waters of the Bosphorus, like two amputated limbs. 

Down, the current dragged them further, to the very bottom of the sea, until they settled on the sandy floor, the creatures of the deep circling round them in detached curiosity, their cold and ancient eyes observing in total objectivity. For safety and for comfort, Annabeth buried her face into his shirt, and she wept. She wept loudly and piteously enough that her tears could double the size of the Aegean, as she wept for the city of her youth and for the passing of an age. She wept for the thousand year old walls and churches which would soon be reduced to nothing but ash and rubble, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He buried his face in her hair, her golden curls floating, reaching as fingers towards the surface, and they held each other tight as their world burned above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to the effervescent Darkmagyk for indulging tf out of me
> 
> glossary for part 2! in order of appearance:  
> • the Gate of Eugenios; a gate in the city walls near the tip of the Golden Horn  
> • "Theotoke Parthene"/"Sancta Maria"; the Ave Maria prayer, in Greek and Latin  
> • "Malaka"; Greek curse word roughly translating to "wanker," also used as an adjective  
> • "Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison"; more Greek prayers, "Lord have mercy" and "Christ have mercy," respectively  
> • Pantokrator; the Greek Orthodox specific depiction of Jesus  
> • Giustiniani/the Genoese; Giovanni Giustiniani Longo was a Genoese captain and commander for the Byzantines during the siege. Both the Genoese and the Venetians came to Constantinople's aid, but were generally quite useless and extremely outnumbered  
> • San Romano; another gate, on the Northern side of the city  
> • Seventh Hill; Constantinople had seven hills, just like Rome  
> • Blachernae; a neighborhood in Constantinople in the Northeast corner  
> • Ennosigaios; an epithet for Poseidon  
> • Mesoteichion; the "Middle Wall" on the Northern side of the city  
> • Rhomiaioi/Hellenes; era-specific names for "Romans" and "Greeks"  
> • ta Eugenious; another neighborhood in Constantinople, in the Southeast  
> • Areia; epithet for Athena  
> • Skjaldmaer; "shield-maiden," meant as a jab at Annabeth's viking ancestry  
> • Phykios; an epithet for Poseidon, translates to "full of seaweed" (Seaweed brain...)  
> • Latins; the Western Christian Italians, as opposed to the Eastern Christian Byzantines  
> • the boom chain; how the Byzantines kept control of the bay for so long, the chain strung across the harbor would prevent ships from coming in  
> • Galata; the opposite side of the harbor, now the Asian side of Istanbul  
> • Kerkoporta; another gate, allegedly where the Ottomans broke the siege  
> • Polias; epithet for Athena  
> • "Syn Athenai"; an Aesop's fable quote  
> • "a man in a purple cloak"; legend held that the last emperor Constantine XI threw himself into the fight and was never seen again, but will return when Greece's need is greatest


	3. Chapter 3

“No.”

“Perseus.”

“No!”

“Then I shall go without you.”

“Then I wish you luck on finding safe passage.”

She glared at him, and he returned her gaze in full force. “You know it to be the most strategic action to take.”

“Were you not the one who told me in the first place, that the _despotes_ were incompetent fools?”

“They are.” She shifted on her lackluster cushioning before their campfire, the place where the great brazier of Chiron’s _agoge_ had once stood.

The journey to Sigeion had taken them merely a day, thanks entirely to Percy and his skills at navigation. Annabeth had been somewhat less than helpful, choosing to spend the bulk of the voyage sulking at the back of their craft, rather than assisting him, though of course, he did not need it. After night and the city had fallen in its entirety, the two had resolved to seek out the centaur Chiron in order to tell him the news, and to ask his guidance on what to do, yet when they arrived on the shores of that familiar site, to their dismay, the camp had entirely vanished. 

Where once had been a small but thriving little town, now there lay naught but sand and stone. This safe, sacred place for demigods, built in the shadow and memory of _Ilion_ , was gone, with no indication of where, when, or how. Gone were the vast vineyards and olive orchards which had fed and watered them; gone were the horsetrack and the amphitheater wherein they had honed their skills; gone were the temples and monuments, the Big House and all the little villas where he had worked and eaten and laughed with his friends and companions.

Aeneas had left a burning city behind him, his son in hand and his father on his back, but there was nothing here save for untouched earth and windworn stone. 

There had been a fountain in the villa set aside for Poseidon’s children, a gift from an absent father who thought to forge a stronger bond with his only child in decades, one that Percy had hoped to use, but that was gone as well, as was the great stockpile of weapons and armor and ambrosia. Nothing of the home they had once known remained. 

They had, Percy and Annabeth, agreed to take their rest in the place where camp had once stood for three days, in order to rest, recover, and plan their next course of action. Annabeth, always thinking several steps ahead, had recalled a hidden cache of supplies further inland, and had gone to fetch them while Percy made use of his skills and prepared them their dinners and their sacrifices. Of course, as one might expect, their proposed plans were quite at odds, and their tentative alliance had met its very first obstacle.

Staring into the fire, Annabeth drew patterns in the earth with the burned point of her stick--be they battle plans or rude words, Percy could not tell from his vantage point across from her. “Understand me well, Perseus, this is not a strategy I enjoy.”

“Then let us travel North,” he said, “to Aachen.”

Scowling, she threw the stick into the fire.

“We need to get word of this attack to the Twelfth Legion.”

“To Tartarus with the Twelfth Legion.”

“They are good people,” he pointed out, “and what is more, they have the fighting force we need.”

“The Latins have had Constantinople beneath their boot for the last two hundred years, and now you want to go crawling back to them and beg for their help?” Lifting her chin, she pierced him with her gaze from across the fire, furious and arresting. “Do you forget your history so easily?”

“As you said, it has been two hundred years.” The insult dealt by the Twelfth Legion in the form of the Fourth Crusade, he knew, was a particular point of contention for her, but, to Percy’s mind, there was no point in dwelling on it, for no man alive today could remember the events of such a far-off past. What was more, he knew the Legion personally, had even fought with them, a fact which Annabeth had, apparently, never forgiven him for. “I can send a message to Iason, or Franko--”

She scoffed. “As if the Legion would ever deign to assist a pair of wayward _Hellenes_. They would do what all Latins do, force their practices and their laws upon those who cannot fight back. Look at what they have done to you!” she said, gesturing to his arm, where the mark of the empire had been branded into his skin.

Despite his best attempts, he found himself bristling, rising to her challenge. “The Legion is the only place left for demigods now.”

“No,” she shook her head, “The _agoge_ can’t have--it can’t have just vanished into thin air. Chiron is out there, somewhere, with all of our siblings and friends.”

“And you would disrespect them by throwing in your lot with the Christian kings of the Morea? Men you do not even respect?”

In fury, she rose from her seat, fists clenched. “For all that the _despotes_ lack, they have one trait that deserves our support: their name. The Romans will rally round Thomas, and if not him, then Demetrios will serve our purposes equally as well.”

He narrowed his eyes. A woman of many plans was this Annabeth Fredriksdotter, and he knew her well enough to know that this barely scratched the surface of what she had in store. He knew her to be a woman of great ambition, as he had witnessed many times over the years, and one whose military mind was quite unmatched. She took great pride in her plans, and in the sharing of them; even in such a difficult situation as this, surely she had something more than simply making their case to the guards at the Hexamilion wall and hoping for the best. 

“You know that they will not listen to you.”

“Then I will make them listen.”

Percy had no doubt that she could, one way or another. But something about the way she spoke gave him pause. How would a woman such as her endeavor to get a man like Thomas Palaiologos to listen to her? What great women often must do to get great men to listen to them, he supposed. “You plan on entering yourself into marriage with one of them.”

Rounding out her jaw, she sat back down, arms crossed. “And what of it?”

“You think you can compel Thomas to try his hand against the Turks.”

“Theodora once did the same for her husband,” she said, “and from her efforts the riots of Nika were quelled.”

“Wives can work many miracles indeed,” said Percy, “I do not argue that point,” though he wished he had a reason to. For some odd reason, the idea of Annabeth wed set his blood pulsing in ways he did not understand.

“Well If I must be married to a Christian, let him be one I can use.”

His heart pounded in his chest, his tongue numb in his mouth. Annabeth wed to a Christian--he nearly snarled at the thought. “Then shall I call you empress already?”

She blushed, visible even in the firelight. “Stop it.”

“I am merely giving you the respect that you seem to believe you deserve, _Basileia_ ,” he sneered. He did not know from where this anger had come, harsh words tripping off his tongue before he could stop them. “Does her imperial majesty Ana Zabeta bring a great dowry into her marriage beyond her military strategy and her plan to manipulate her husband?”

“I said, stop it.”

Percy had been preparing a jab at her future sons, heirs to a measly handful of rocks and ancient gold coins, when he looked at her--truly, looked at her.

He had never known her to be anything less than intimidating. Even as children, she would not hesitate to push him around, a challenge he had welcomed and met with equal parts animosity and laughter. Their constant bickering had been legendary, and not just because of their respective divine parentages. It seemed that the two of them could not bear to spend more than thirty minutes in each other’s presences without devolving into some useless debate which served no purpose but to whet their appetites on the rivalry which had stretched all the way from the contest of Athens. For all his posturing and complaining, it was not a relationship that he hated. In fact, he would go so far as to say that, after some time, he had come to enjoy her presence in his life, despite the vitriol and insults that they slung at each other. On any other night, he would have continued to push her, because he could, because that was their practice with each other. 

Tonight, however, she shivered in the cool breeze despite the heart of the fire, pulling her shawl about her. Her perfect posture slumped, and even the perfect curls of her hair seemed deflated, falling limply down her shoulders and back, a far, far cry from the careful manner in which she arranged it. Her face, burnt and peeling from the sun, was hardened, yet the cracks in the surface were easily distinguished the longer he looked at her. 

He sighed, shrugging off his own coat, before standing and going to her, wrapping it around her shoulders. “I apologize,” he said. “I did not mean to upset you.”

Even looking at her now, shivering and slumped and just this side of defeated, in his heart of hearts he knew that she would make a fine empress. No man could turn down her proposal, and should the _Palaiologai_ refuse, then they deserved whatever fate was coming to them.

Rather than refuse, she drew his coat around her as well, in a manner so unlike her. 

“It is alright,” she said. “I take no offense.”

Theirs was an acquaintanceship long and storied, but one which would not survive this new and strange world, should they keep to their ancient ways. “I do not wish to fight with you anymore,” he said, and to his great surprise, he meant it. 

“Nor I you,” said she, softly. “Please, sit with me here.”

He blinked, stunned, as though another cannonball had just struck the ground near his feet.

“It’s not a trick,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Sit. I am cold.”

Stiffly, he lowered himself to sit next to her, perched on the edge of her rock. Annabeth was most skilled at close quarters combat, he recalled, and she could, most likely, kill him sitting down as well. But threaten him she did not, instead, she merely scooted closer to him, extending one arm of the large cloak so that they could share.

And, well, it was a cold night.

They sat, huddled together before the campfire, as the smoke carried the sparks towards the heavens. After some time, she laid her head upon his shoulder, her hair so soft against his bare skin, and he thought he could feel her heartbeat against his side, as furious as a war drum--or perhaps that was his own. “I, too, am sorry,” she said, with no trace of malice. “You were correct.”

“Annabeth, admitting she was wrong? The world truly is ending,” he teased, then froze at his inappropriate jest.

Still, she laughed, huffing a breath and jostling him with an elbow. “About the _Palaiologai_ , I mean.” Sighing, she ran a corner of his cloak through her fingers, picking at the loose thread there. “The _despotes_ really are incompetent fools who have run their territory into the ground all in the name of foolish fraternal in-fighting, and no man in his right mind should follow either one of them into battle. If the princess Zoe were older, perhaps, she could be the figurehead that we need, but I don’t believe that would be a moral course of action.”

“I agree,” said Percy. “Let us leave the poor girl out of this.” The _porphyrogenita_ was merely four years old, younger than his own dear sister; he shuddered to think of someone so young drawn into a conflict like this. And yet, of course, she was a girl--no doubt the Catholics would have some nefarious purpose in mind for her when she came of age. He thought again of marriage, that damnable contract, and his face grew hot. 

“I just…” 

Percy did not think it were possible, but Annabeth moved herself even closer into his one-armed embrace at the sudden gust of wind, dark and chill, as their campfire wavered threateningly. She must have bathed herself in the sea earlier, he thought, as her hair smelt of salt, and smoke from their fire, her curls tossed wildly by the waves and the wind, an altogether not unpleasant scent. 

Then, so softly, so quietly as though he thought he might have dreamt it, he heard her whisper, “I just cannot believe that they’re gone.”

The case of the missing camp was peculiar indeed, and Percy was somewhat ashamed at how few thoughts he had spent on his vanished friends. He could only handle a single calamity at any given time. Annabeth, he knew though, had run away from her home far in the North when she had been a young girl, and had spent much of her childhood on these very shores, with all of her siblings and friends surrounding her. No doubt she was worrying herself sick over their whereabouts and their health. “Wherever they are,” he tried to assure, “I am sure Chiron is taking good care of them. Perhaps they are even searching for us, and this may be the first place they seek.”

“No,” she shook her head, which only served to slot herself further against his side, and Percy tried very very hard not to shiver at the press of her warm body against his, “I do not mean our fellow demigods.”

“Then of whom do you speak?”

She lifted her head then, looking at him incredulously. “The gods, Perseus.”

He frowned. “Annabeth, I saw them--”

“I know that you believe you witnessed something, but it can’t have been what you thought. It simply can’t.” 

“Rachael witnessed it as well,” he pointed out, “and you know that she has a clearer sight than either of us.”

But she would not hear him. “I wish to go to Athens.”

“Athens? Annabeth, that is nearly as dangerous as the Morea--”

“I must go to the Acropolis,” she insisted, eyes wild as though some madness had possessed her. “My mother will be there, I can feel it. And when I get there, I will make a sacrifice in the mighty Parthenon, and there she _will_ speak with me.”

Truly, a part of him envied her faith. There had been a time when he had had the same enduring faith in his own father, in the power of the gods and in their enduring legacy--that the very same siege which had broken his faith so surely had not even shaken hers was nothing short of miraculous. 

“I wish I felt the same as you,” he told her, “but I cannot let you go to Athens alone.”

“You should come with me, for perhaps you may be able to speak to your father there as well.”

The warmth of the fire deserted him, as if it had been snuffed out, and even Annabeth’s body no longer provided him comfort. Jaw clenching, he turned his face away from the sea, away from the sweet scent of her hair, glaring off into the black night. “He will not be there.”

“Well you yourself said that we could not attempt the Isthmus of Corinth; therefore, by that logic, Athens would be the next place to go. You know as well as I do how the Athenians venerated your father, despite him losing the contest. If you go to the Erechtheion, perhaps he may come to you--”

“He will not,” said Percy. Along the shore, the waves thrashed against the sand, striking stone and splitting earth.

“How do you know he will not? Are you so certain that our families have abandoned us that you will not even attempt to reach out to them?”

“I know because I have already tried.” Without the proximity of her body, he felt the night chill ever more keenly, and he wrapped his arms around himself in a vain attempt to warm himself even as his half of the cloak fell off his shoulder. Let her have the whole of it, then, he thought. The cold only reminded him more of his resolve.

“When on Earth did you have time to go all the way to Athens?”

“Not Athens,” he said, staring at the grains of scorched sand at his feet. “Thera.”

Her eyes widened. “Santorini? That’s even further!”

“I caught a current.”

“And you lecture me about waltzing into danger.”

“Well, Annabeth, when you somehow learn to breathe underwater, please do tell me, so I can take you on all manner of thrilling excursions.”

She glared, crossing her arms. “Oh, I apologize, my lord, for we cannot all be blessed with partial divinity. Some of us are relegated to our pathetic mortal talents.”

“No, it is I who must apologize, your imperial majesty,” he snipped, “for those born without your dazzling intellect and your natural talents must then rely on our divine gifts in order to even the score.”

It felt wrong, to say things he privately believed in such cruel tones. She furrowed her brow, unsure how to respond to his taunts.

“But it matters not,” he said, before he let slip any more inconvenient truths that he carried. “I used my blessing to stay beneath the waves--neither the Venetians nor the Ottomans ever saw me.”

“And did you find it? Your father’s palace?”

As a boy, Percy had often dreamed of visiting his father’s palace. Most days, it was enough to know that his father was alive even, after a lifetime of questions and insults and uncertainty, let alone that he was a god. Yet still, he dreamt of seeing it for himself, of disappearing into the deep blue water, of following the currents into the heart of the ocean, a map that only the children of the sea could read, and arriving at the gates of his father’s home, of their ancestral seat of power, and one fine day, his patience was rewarded. He would never, as long as he lived, forget the sight of the sea god’s court as it unfolded before him: the grand buildings, the walls encrusted with pearls, the abalone floors, and above it all, the great golden dome which reflected the light as it filtered through the water, as though the sun itself rested beneath the waves. 

There were few sights as beautiful, and few places he had ever loved as much, for the court of Poseidon had, after the war, welcomed its wayward son with open arms. Perseus of Constantinople, he was nothing but a penniless soldier with a knack for fishing; Perseus, son of Poseidon, was a hero and a prince of the highest order. He had been honored with a great feast at the palace, and had danced and made merry with many beautiful nymphs and nereids, had drank with his father and felt his gentle, fond approval, like a hand upon his brow. His mother loved him without abandon, his friends at camp were as fast as any man could hope for, but there had always been something in him which longed for the sea, something which had only been satisfied far beneath the surface. 

“Yes,” he said. “I found it.” It was in the same place as it always had been, that grand building, the great court of the Aegean. “It was deserted. As much a ruin as Troy.” 

He had never once known the palace to be empty, not even during wartime. There had always been sea creatures out and about, minor gods, nymphs, naiads, even simple schools of fish, darting hither and thither in their ancient roadways. But as he swam about the coral halls, the cracked columns encrusted over with barnacles, he found them not just devoid of people, but of power, of the very memories of joy and laughter and light, the softly glowing fields of algae like ghosts in the cloudy deep.

"Oh," she said, uncharacteristically cowed. "I... I apologize."

What an odd pair they made, the two of them. As different as they were, as bitter as they could be to each other, however, he knew that they were, in fact, more similar than some would have guessed. He knew that she much shared his determination and his drive, his stubbornness and grit, and the need to know and understand on one’s own terms, so he was not at all surprised when she then said, “But I have to see it for myself. I will not be able to rest until I have tried.”

“I understand.” For he did, and he knew her well enough to know that there was very little which could change her mind once she had set herself to a course of action. “Tonight, we shall rest. Tomorrow, we set sail for Athens.”

She smiled at him then, soft and trembling, and it was as though the heat of the fire grew warmer. “Thank you, Percy.”

“But let it be known,” he said, “that I do not approve of this plan.”

“You will regret those words after I have spoken to my mother,” she said, putting on haughty airs in order to, he supposed, counteract the weakness she had just shown to him. 

“I pray that I do.” He knew, deep within him, that she would not find what she sought in Athens, but he simply could not bring himself to fight with her further. Let her find her despair on her own. When she fell, he would be there to catch her, and then they could forge a new course of action together, and stronger for it.

Something in the stars above drew her attention, for she lifted her face to the heavens. In the light of the fire, he could see the long, graceful column of her neck, the flickering shadows playing against the pale expanse of her skin, and he looked away. It would not do to look upon an empress as such, nor a woman who may very well soon be married. “I shall take the first watch,” said she. “Rest, now. I will wake you when it is your turn.”

“As you wish, your majesty,” he muttered, turning away, though his heart thumped in his chest as he watched her fight off a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing credit once again to Darkmagyk, my love my dove
> 
> glossary, part 3, in order of appearance:  
> • agoge; Spartan military school for the kiddos  
> • Ilion; another name for Troy, related to "Ilium"/the Iliad  
> • Aachen; Charlemagne's city and the medieval capital of the Holy Roman Empire  
> • the Despotate of the Morea; a province of the Byzantine empire set in the Morea (the Pelopennesse of Greece) governed by two of Constantine XI's brothers, Thomas and Demetrios, both idiots  
> • the Hexamillion Wall; the surrounding defenses of Corinth  
> • Palaiologos; the last Byzantine dynasty  
> • Theodora and the Nika riots; wife of Justinian, all around badass, carrier of the balls in the relationship. She forced Justinian not to be a bitch and face his people, they stopped the riots, and commissioned the Hagia Sophia  
> • Basileia; female form of "Basileus," Greek for "king," used to refer to the emperors  
> • Ana Zabeta; Annabeth is a weird name  
> • Zoe Palaiologina; last princess of Byzantium, later Grand Princess Sophia of Moscow, and grandmother to Ivan the Terrible  
> • porphyrogenita; female form of "porphyrogenitus," meaning "born in the purple," i.e. born into imperial royalty  
> • Thera; the original name for Santorini, and also a volcano. Possibly the inspiration for the sinking of Atlantis


	4. Chapter 4

Catching a current to Thera had been a simple task. Well, there had been parts to the journey somewhat more complex than he had let on to his traveling companion, but the steps taken had, all told, been rather simple for a son of the sea god. Following the currents was a matter of instinct, and in the water, he could forget mortal afflictions such as hunger or exhaustion. 

Annabeth did not have the same freedoms, of course, and while Percy could extend his gifts to her for some time, he simply was not strong enough to sustain it for the entirety of the journey to Athens. Travelling by boat was somewhat riskier, as there were the Ottomans and the Venetians to avoid, not to mention all the other Latins and Franks and gods-only-knew-who-else who sought to steal some of _Hellas_ ’ glory for themselves, but Percy was confident that he could steer a ship out of danger with far less effort than he could carry Annabeth under the sea.

“It will draw less attention to ourselves,” he had reminded her, “if we are merely one of a thousand mortals making pilgrimage to Athens.” Convinced, unhappily, she agreed.

It had been a long, quiet, terse five days, and not only because she would often refuse to speak to him. 

The two of them had traveled these waters together once before, searching for a certain magical sheepskin, but Percy could never recall them being so empty. In his memory, sea monsters lurked beneath every wave, while other horrors plucked straight from the mouths of the poets and muses made their homes on every spit of land, no matter how small. But the monsters and the madness that had haunted heroes such as Jason, Odysseus, Aeneas, and all the others, appeared to have simply vanished into the mist. Even the waves themselves were unusually pacified, allowing them to pass without too much trouble. 

It all made for quite the unsettling picture. It was, at once, both empty and not empty; he felt as though they were standing upon the shore as the water was pulled out to the sea, in preparation for the monstrous tsunami which would follow. If a man were able to live in that moment, the calm before the storm, the precipice before the cliff, the sharply receding tide before the flood, then he would know how the sea felt to Percy in this moment. 

“Look, Annabeth,” he said, in an attempt to cajole her into conversation. “There, to the West--we are coming up on Delos.”

She did not respond.

“Do you not remember? Apollo’s lions burst forth from the stone and nearly ate us for trespassing.”

All quiet. When he looked to her, she had her head tipped back against the wood of the ship, eyes closed, hands fiddling with the frayed edge of her shawl, a thin, faded grey strip of fabric. She must have woven it herself; he thought he recognized her patterns as they shifted in the bright sunlight, but they had grown distorted by time, the threads stained with brown, dry blood. 

With a sigh, he turned back to the sail, adjusting it, the scrape of rope soothing to his ears. The sea was never meant to be so silent, yet as the presence of the gods had fled the last standing city of their once great empire, as his father’s palace now sat cold and empty at the bottom of the sea, so too had the sea seemed to have lost all its magic. 

No, not all of it, he thought. Was he himself not living proof that magic still lived in this land? He could yet still breathe underwater, could still command his boat and navigate the seas with more skill than the most experienced captain. There had been the terrible moment, a painful and fleeting thing, in the heartbeats between leaping into the sea with his arms around Annabeth and hitting the water, where he wondered if, rather than securing their escape, he had led them to their deaths instead, that he had lost the powers Annabeth had accused him of relying on too strongly. 

But of course, they had not. Percy was of the sea, the ancient salt and spray his blood and his breath, and the power of Poseidon would remain within him always, even if the god himself did not. 

In silence, they made their way then to Piraeus. As Percy had predicted, they blended in quite well with their fellow pilgrims, and if any person thought it odd that their vessel was only crewed by two, they did not mention it. At the very least, they were spared from walking in the hot sun, as Percy managed to scrounge up a few coins from the meager money Annabeth had found to rent them passage on a horse cart which traveled into the city. Still tired from the long journey, she lay her head on his shoulder, their backs pressed against the wooden cart.

Percy had never seen Athens before. He had seen the painting, which hung in Annabeth’s and her siblings’ villa, and he had heard her speak of it, many many times. Based on how often she spoke of it, he felt as though he had been there a thousand times before, had seen its winding streets and mighty marble monuments. By the gods, they had been tasked with crafting little miniatures of the Parthenon as a way of testing their fine motor movements. The way she talked, the things she built, surely she must have seen it for herself. “Bet you’re glad to be back,” he said, not really expecting an answer. “I’ve never been to Athens before.”

“Neither have I,” she mumbled.

He turned to look at her, shocked. “You haven’t?”

“Never had the chance.”

“But--I thought--the way you speak of it--”

“I’ve always wanted to see it, of course,” she said. Annabeth kept her eyes on her hands, playing with the increasingly fraying ends of her shawl. “All children of Athena do. But I have studied the temple more keenly than anyone I know. I know everything there is to know about the Acropolis. Every temple, every column, every brick was placed with the finest care and the foremost precision.” She smiled then, a small, creeping thing, and it seemed to lighten her whole face. “I cannot wait to see it.”

Like this, so soft in the face, almost dreamy, she was honestly quite pretty, he thought to himself. “Tell me about it,” he asked, as soft as a puff of wind, as though he had never heard her speak of it before. 

Her shawl dropped to her lap. “We begin at the _propylea_ ,” she said, tracing the outline with her fingers, “the great winding road up the Western side of the mountain. Immediately to your right, there is the temple of Athena Nike, then once you enter beneath the great archway…” She sighed, almost ardent. “There, you would see it: the statue of Athena, and behind her, the Parthenon. The columns are of the Doric order, and thus unadorned at their top by any sort of frivolous curls or curves. Above them sit the metopes, which ring the whole building, and each marble frieze tells of a great epic; the Titanomachy, the Amazonomachy, the Trojan war. And the colors,” her face broke out into a true smile, and her eyes crinkled at the corners, shining and silver. “Such beautiful colors, red and gold and green. Oh, and the pediments! We must not forget the pediments.”

“The pediments?” He frowned. “I do not know that word.”

“It refers to the triangular space between the portico and the roof. Do you not remember the door of the Big House?”

Yes, he recalled now, though he didn’t see what all the fuss was over the empty space was. “Are the pediments truly so important?”

“These ones are,” she said, “for the western pediment depicts the story of our parents.”

“Ah.” 

Now this was a story which she loved to hold over him, retelling every chance she could, to make sure that he never forgot which of their divine parents were revered by the city of Athens. 

“It is beautiful, Perseus, you shall see,” she said, with a teasing grin. “It is said that the bodies and the horses are rendered so perfectly, I cannot imagine that you will not be able to see the look on your father’s face as he realizes he has lost the contest for Athens.”

“Yes, well,” he harrumphed. “It had better be worth it, then.”

“It will be,” she assured him. “Once we round the _Areopagus_ , you will be able to see the _propylea_ above the mountain, and the perfect point of the Parthenon above that.”

When they approached the _Areopagus_ proper, the hill which rose from the streets, some hour or so later, she actually leaned forward, going up on her knees to better see the view from their cart. 

“Here it is,” she said. Her whole body quivered, as tense as a bow on a string. “Here it is.”

He smiled at her excitement, as though she were a child.

Almost immediately, he noticed something was wrong. Her shoulders were tight, raised up to her ears as she went deathly still. “Annabeth?” She did not answer him. “Annabeth?”

Joining her at the lip of the cart, he looked up at the Acropolis. 

He frowned. “What are those walls?”

The many, many times she had described the Acropolis to him, she had never once mentioned the stone walls. Brown and grey, they rose up out of the sheer cliffside, notched indentations in the top like teeth, as though they were devouring the cliff-face whole. On the northern and southern ends, two large towers lorded over the rest. 

Too enthralled in the stone walls, he did not notice as their cart traveled onward in the shadow of the cliff. “Where are we going?” he asked, looking towards the horse at the front of the cart. “Was that not the _propylea_?”

It was only then that he saw Annabeth. Pale as a ghost, she was, her knuckles white from gripping the edge of the wood, and her face was set in a terrible grimace. Her eyes bulged out as though she saw a monster, her chin trembling as she opened her mouth and gasped out, “Those are not supposed to be there.”

“What isn’t?”

“The walls.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. He always knew her to be solid, immovable, strong as a statue, but now she looked as though she could be brought low by a mere puff of wind. 

“Perhaps they are new,” he offered.

But she fell silent again, glaring at the cliffside as they passed. Her hands, now resting in her lap, clenched and unclenched over and over again, twitching in the manner that suggested she was about to draw her knife, though what target had drawn her ire he could only guess--presumably, she dreamt of stabbing the fool who had chosen to add walls to the Acropolis. Her jaw was hard, set so firmly he thought he could hear her grinding her teeth behind her lips. Antagonistic as they were, he had been on the receiving end of that glare more times than he cared to remember, and he was again glad that they had chosen to set aside their rivalry for now. Eventually, the driver let them off on the eastern side of the mountain. For a moment, he made to help her down from the cart, as he had been taught, but looking at her face, he decided not to risk the insult, allowing her to scramble down to the ground by herself, and side-by-side, they made the long trek to the Acropolis, just another two pilgrims on the final leg of their journey.

Unfortunately, their troubles were merely beginning.

Cresting the hill, the midafternoon sun beating down on them, Annabeth stiffened against him, so severely he thought she might faint. “What,” she hissed, “is that _monstrosity_?”

He blinked, squinting through the bright light, though he did not see anything so obviously offensive to the senses--but then, he did not know the field of architecture nearly as well as she did. “What is it?”

“That!” 

On top of the building immediately before them rose a bell tower, a cross sitting proudly above it. Surely she could not be referring to that, as the streets of Constantinople had been practically littered with bell towers and crosses. One would be hard pressed to find a corner which did not have a church with its own bell and steeple. “The tower?”

“No, the columns,” she scoffed. “Of course the _malakes_ tower! What is it doing on top of the Parthenon?”

“Annabeth,” he said slowly. “It is a bell tower. Surely, you know what a bell tower is.”

She flushed. “Yes, I know what a bell tower is, _phykios_ , but what I do _not_ know is which imbecile thought to put one up on top of the Parthenon!” She pointed, glaring at it. “It is not even symmetrical!”

He tilted his head, looking. She was right; it did seem oddly placed, given what he had heard of the temple, far back and to the left. 

“This is all wrong,” she fretted, worrying her lip between her teeth. “This is--this is wrong. We are supposed to enter through the _propylea_ from the West, into the Precinct of Artemis _Brauronia_ , then pass the Athena _Promachos_ on the northern edge _,_ and--and the pediment--”

Oh dear. She was shaking, now, a leaf on the wind. It was a risky move, to be sure, but he rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing. She trembled so violently, he thought he could feel it in his bones. “Here,” he said, “let us go inside. We can sit down, catch our breath.”

The fact that she did not refuse him was more concerning than if she had turned around and stabbed him. 

Walking into the--the church, he supposed it was, he too felt a little uneasy. The eastern pediment, not the one she had spoken so highly of, the one which was supposed to portray the origins of their ancient feud, but its sister pediment, a good third of it was missing, plucked straight from the middle of the frieze, the faded pale statues headless, like corpses in the grip of death. 

Percy had seen many churches before. Few could compare to St. Sophia, but in essence, all churches looked somewhat the same. He did not have the fancy words for it, not like Annabeth, but he could recognize their shared features should he see them. This was… 

He did not know what to think of it, truly. 

He supposed that St. Sophia had spoiled him, all that light streaming in through the dome of the roof. The churches of Constantinople were not places which he frequented, but he found himself in St. Sophia for pagan-related duties more frequently than he cared to be, and had become used to that kind of space, so open and airy. By contrast, here the ceiling was flat, dark, nearly oppressive. Rich frescoes and golden mosaics surrounded them, their strange, frightening faces staring down at them, in cold, apathetic judgement. Pilgrims streamed in through the narrow entrance, pressed so close together that Annabeth was forced to grab onto his arm for fear of being separated. Still she shook, shivering as though she were feverish, and before he could think better of it, he placed an arm around her shoulder, drawing her off to the side, away from the large crush of people. Gently steering her, he brought them to the back left corner of the main gallery, and dropped to his knees in order to better blend in with the crowds, pleased when she took his lead without any further prompting. 

“This is all wrong,” she whispered. “This is so wrong.”

He squeezed her shoulder, placing his head against hers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Those walls,” her breath hitched, “those hideous, ugly walls--”

“I know,” he said, “I know.”

“I--I didn’t think that--I never thought that, that it might have changed. That it might be different.” She turned to him, eyes wild. “I never--the Parthenon, it’s… you do not understand, the Parthenon is perfect. It is the most perfect piece of architecture ever conceived, ever planned, ever built. The architects, their understanding of mathematics is unparalleled, even to this day. It is _perfect_.”

He did understand, but now was not the time to point that out. Now was simply the time to listen.

“All children of Athena, we can only _dream_ of creating something even half as beautiful. The Parthenon isn’t supposed to change, it is supposed to endure. Survive.” She swallowed, eyes blinking back furious tears. “Look at what they have done to her altar. Her temple.” Turning from him, her hand swiped at her face, and he looked away. “And these horrible, horrible bodies,” she hissed, after a moment. “The statues of the Parthenon are meant to embody the perfection of the human form. What man do you know looks like that?”

Towards the end of the room was the greatest offence yet. As with all churches, this one too had a portrait of the moment of death of their trinity god, his arms fastened to a wooden cross, his head hung in shame and despair. At his feet, a woman wrapped in blue looked on him in painful grief, her hands outstretched as though she could catch the frozen stream of glittering red which poured from a black mark in his side, their features flattened and reconstituted with different colored stones, thick lines criss-crossing their bodies.

She shook her head, disbelieving. “My mother would never have let this insult go unpunished. She must still be here. She has to be.”

Now her tears had dried, and her mouth was set in a thin, grim line, stubborn and serious. No longer did she shake apart on the cold, stone floor, but was still, poised, gathering energy about her as she waited for the proper moment to strike. Oh, he did not have the heart to attempt to convince her out of her plan.

“Stay here. I will see if I can find a way to speak to her.” And so she left him there in the gallery of the church, off to seek some quiet corner. 

Unfortunately, she had not specified for how long she would be gone. And truthfully, she should have known better--they were all saddled with the half-blood’s curse, the plight of wandering attention and nervous energy. To order Percy to stay put was simply a folly. He vowed that he would not leave the Acropolis, for it simply was not that big, and they were sure to find each other easily, but he could not be blamed for indulging this small bout of an itinerant spirit. 

Walking out of the church, before he could exit entirely, something gold caught his eye, and he looked up. Almost directly above the entrance was a raised part of the roof, reminiscent of the dome with which he was most familiar, but instead of sunlight, the dome was lined with gold and pearl and lapis lazuli in what even he had to admit was a stunning mosaic. The same woman was depicted here, in the same stunning blue robe, though she looked down on them not in grief, but in deep, pensive thought. No, not pensive, he amended--calculating. With her straight nose and keen eyes, she seemed to stare deep into his very heart and soul, considering all the contents she found there, and he was unsure whether or not she found him wanting.

Perhaps it was merely because he had been thinking of her so often these last few days, but for some strange reason, the woman in the mosaic reminded him of Annabeth. He had seen that piercing gaze on her face many times, one that she shared with all of her siblings. It was a trait inherited directly from their shared mother, the one they wore when they were crafting the very finest of their battle strategies. 

Unnerved, he continued on, stepping out of the church into its looming shadow. 

In front of him rose another one of Annabeth’s hated towers, round in the way he had come to expect from fortified walls, with soldiers eyeing the pilgrims warily from their positions at the top, though he doubted these men had seen much in the way of fighting. Although, who was he to tell. He had thought, once upon a time, that churches were meant to be sacred spaces to men of god, places where no blood could be shed, nor hateful action be taken. Of course, he knew better now.

Wandering round the Acropolis did little to ease his strange mood. It could not have been a more different experience than exploring his father’s palace beneath the sea; rising high above the city, rather than submerged beneath the depths, where one was empty, ruined and rotting, the other was full, crowded with masses of travelers and worshippers, its fortifications kept seemingly well. And yet, as he walked, still he sensed that strange emptiness that he had felt down below. The people who surrounded him may as well have been ghosts for all that he could know them.

Unbidden, his footsteps brought him past a collection of red roofed houses, squat and low, then round to a strangely shaped building on the northern side of the Acropolis. He frowned, walking down the slim stone steps, taking in the columns whose spaces had been filled with grey stone. 

He had not lied to Annabeth when he said he had never been to Athens before, and he surely did not have her thorough knowledge of the ancient buildings which decorated it, but he knew, deep in his bones, that what he was looking at here was wrong. Beyond the ugly stone, it came too far forward, as though it were a living, breathing creature, swallowing the ancient marble over the course of a thousand years. Tilting his head, he tried to put it from his mind as he considered the four pillars which stood before him.

There was something behind those walls, he knew, though he did not know how, something which called to him, deep in his soul. If he closed his eyes, he thought that he could smell seawater, imagined that he could hear the gurgling of a spring, deep beneath the foundations of the earth, pouring forth as though it were a beating heart.

“Percy.”

He blinked. 

Annabeth stood before him, scowling. “Did I not say to stay where you were?”

The sun laid low on the horizon, casting long shadows over him, though he could not have been standing here for more than a few minutes. “I… I apologize,” he said. His thoughts were fuzzy, as though he were emerging from an unintended nap. “I did not realize how long it had been. Did you find what you were seeking?”

Her scowl deepened further, before dropping, as though it were a mask, leaving nothing but weariness behind. “No,” she said, her gaze dropping to the ground. “My mother would not come.”

“Perhaps we can find a market,” he suggested, though he knew it would be a fruitless gesture, “and procure a sacrifice. Maybe that would entice her to appear.”

But she shook her head, her lips pulled into a frown. “That would not be wise. I fear that if she allowed the desecration of her temple in this way without repercussion, there is very little that would call her down from Olympus.” She turned to join him, then, standing shoulder to shoulder as she, too, beheld the strange facade. 

“Tell me about this place,” he requested. Speaking at length on architecture was, after all, one of her favorite pastimes, and he did so hate to see that sorrowful look on her face. “I feel as if I… know it, somehow.”

“I am not surprised,” she said. “This is--was--is the Erechtheion, the temple dedicated to both of our divine parents.”

“I see,” he teased, hoping to make her smile. “And you said that the Athenians did not like my father.”

Gods be praised, it worked. Trembling, as though she were fighting it, a smile did raise the corners of her mouth. “I said nothing of the sort, merely that the early Athenians vastly preferred my mother.”

“And yet, here lies a temple to his glory.”

She lightly smacked him. “There were shrines to the other gods as well, _phykios_.”

“You cannot take this from me, _skjaldmær._ I shall go round proclaiming its glory to all who would listen to the tale of Poseidon and his Athenian temple.”

“Oh, hush.” But she was grinning now, and his heart rose at the sight.

They stood there for some time, as the sun continued to set over the complex, the shadows of the towers lengthening with every minute. The longer they stood, the more the question nagged at him, filling him with a desire and a longing that he had not known for some time, a yearning which reached beyond his skin and bones deep into the core of him. “Why do I know this place?” he asked her.

Equally spellbound, she answered, “Legend held that this is where our parents’ great rivalry began. They say that beneath the Erechtheion lies the three marks of the sea god’s trident, under the branches of the very first olive tree.”

“Here, you say?” How extraordinary. Here was the spot which would come to define their antagonism, a mighty tree the seeds of which were planted thousands of years ago, far beyond the memory of any living man, recorded in stone and letter. Here they were, two souls adrift in the uncaring winds of time, and yet, together, they had come full circle, to the place where it all began. Who of the ancient Athenians could have guessed, all those generations ago, that their choice of patron would shape the course of history, as a river through a valley? Who among them would have known how their decision would take root throughout the years, until it blossomed within Percy and Annabeth, children who, despite following the same gods, would have been as total strangers to them? The thought filled him with an emotion he could not quite name, only that he knew he was glad for her presence. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, as quiet as a breath, “for looking after me. I am sorry to have dragged you here on nothing but a whim and a wish.”

Acting on some instinct he did not know he possessed, he reached down, and took her hand. It was warm in his, her heart beating strongly through the tips of her fingers. “Think nothing of it. We two must stay together, should we not?”

“We should indeed.”

She looked on him without any distaste or annoyance for what must have been the first time in a very long time, and it sent a warm thrill through him, as though the shadows around them had receded, bathing the two of them in sunlight. “I have been thinking,” he said, inspired by this place and this time and the thought of their legacy. “If indeed, the gods that we know and worship have truly… have truly gone,” and his voice grew thick at the thought. He cleared his throat, and was grateful she did not comment on it. “Then we should continue to travel together. This truce that we have struck, it has proven beneficial in more ways than I could have predicted, and if we are to survive whatever comes next, I have a feeling that we should stay together. If you agree, Annabeth, let us, here and now, tie off these threads of our history, as one would to a tapestry. Let us end this rivalry of ours.”

She looked at him, a cascade of feelings crossing her face, too quick for him to name, until she settled on something which he would define as apprehension, perhaps. Gazing into his eyes, she searched for some hint that he would betray her, he supposed, though he could not blame her for it. His proposal was a novel one, and bold as well. Should her mother get word of this agreement, Annabeth could find herself in deep trouble, as Athena’s hatred of Percy himself was no secret. 

This close, the setting sun seemed to reflect in her eyes, transforming them from steel to silver, a kaleidoscope of glittering stars. This close, he realized he could trace the flush on her cheeks as it traveled towards the crooked bridge of her nose, and he saw that there were freckles there, beneath the tanned skin. 

“A plan worthy of Athena,” she said after some consideration. “I agree to your terms.”

And thus, it was ended. 

“To think,” he murmured, “that such a legendary rivalry could have been resolved so easily.”

“It is strange,” she admitted, “that along with my mother and our ancestral home, I have lost this as well.” And she looked out over the city, despondent.

He frowned, as he did not think of their antagonism as something to lose; rather, he felt as though the ancient fields had been overturned, the old soil furrowed, giving way to new and fertile ground, full of endless possibility. 

“Well,” he said, hoping to put a smile back on her face, "my first act, in the shedding of our rivalry, is to pledge myself to our future empress, Ana Zabeta Palaiologina." Then, in a fit of insanity, he raised her hand to his lips, and laid a kiss there.

She did not smile at him; rather, she rolled her eyes, pulling her hand from his grasp, and wiping it on the front of her dress. 

“Where to then, your majesty? The Morea?”

“Enough,” she said. “I had given up that plan some time ago.”

“Oh?” 

“As you and I have both noted, the _despotes_ will not give us the army that we seek, nor the Legion, nor any of the rulers of this Christendom. I fear,” she sighed, biting her lip, “I fear that Constantinople is lost to us forever.” She looked to him again, clear eyes shining. “We have lost, Perseus. The gods have gone, the empire has fallen, and we have lost.”

And that, he supposed, was that. The reign of the Olympians was ended. They were well and truly alone.

But, he thought, at least they were together.

“What now?” Endless possibility, he thought. How frightening. “Do we look for the _agoge_?”

“I do not see how we can,” she admitted. “Chiron could be anywhere, and I have not the faintest idea of where to begin.”

Neither, unfortunately, did he. They could have been anywhere in the world, but the world was a vast, vast place. “Let us find some place to rest. Tomorrow, we can decide what to do, but tonight, we have earned our respite.”

Their business thus concluded, they wound their way down the cliff, to the city below, in search of some place to rest their heads. 

It was not terribly difficult for them to find an inn. Claiming tiredness, Annabeth bade him to go and get them something to eat. “Anything in particular?” he asked.

“Something cheap,” was her perfunctory response. Collapsing onto their shared bed, which was, unfortunately, the only one which had been available in that particular establishment, she turned away from him, curling into herself, and sensing the dismissal for what it was, he left her to it, setting out for food. 

Immediately, he wished he had been able to entice her to come with him. 

Athens in the evening was quite beautiful. The air had cooled considerably, the low light casting the homes and streets in shades of red and pink and gold. It was smaller than he had expected the great city to be, however. He had been expecting something grander even than Rome, or the city of Constantine, yet what he saw put him more in mind of a small, backwater town. Even to his untrained eye, the buildings were mismatched and patchwork, different styles of marble sewn together haphazardly, unsymmetrically and non-uniformly--a cardinal sin, he gathered, to the keen mind of an architect. From the way Annabeth had spoken of it, Athens by rights should have been the virtual center of the known world, the shining jewel of _Hellas_ and beyond, as it had been in centuries long past. Whatever it may have lacked in people or in great thinkers nowadays, however, there was at least plenty of food to be found. The air here was thick with the heady smells of garlic, salt, and onion, transporting him back to his childhood home, to his mother and her kitchen.

Gods, his mother. In all this time, he had not even spared a thought to her or her husband or their daughter. He had sent them from Constantinople prior to the siege, but he did not know where they had landed. Were they safe? Healthy? Had little Esther been able to sleep through the night without being plagued by any more nightmares? Was his mother able to make her pastries still, with cinnamon and mahleb? 

Would he ever see them again?

Without much conscious thought, his wanderings brought him to a stall on the edge of the populated area, every inch covered in reams of fabric, richly hued, in shades of copper and cream and grey. He had passed by hundreds others just like it, so he was not certain why this one had caught his eye. Perhaps coming across this particular stall had simply coincided with an idea he had been concocting, a coincidence of good timing and sudden fortune. Perhaps it had been the length of blue cloth he had seen behind the elderly woman who sat in the center of her tent, eyeing him warily. “See something that piques your fancy?” she asked, though she made no further move to greet him.

“Oh,” he said, “no, thank you. I was merely looking.”

“Finest cloths in the city,” she said, a bold claim, he thought, since he was quite certain he had seen these exact fabrics on display in every little tent he had come across so far. “I make them all myself.”

“I do not have much in the way of money,” he said, hoping she would leave him be.

Oddly enough, that only seemed to excite her. She turned over her shoulder, pulling the bolt of blue down from behind her, and holding it out to him. In the evening light, he thought it might resemble the color of a starless sky, a deep, inky blue. “You have good taste--this color is very fashionable these days.”

“Truly, I have no money,” he said, even as an absurd thought began to form in his mind. The color, he thought, that blue, it would look quite beautiful set against a certain blonde braid. 

She sighed. “What do you have?”

“Huh?”

“The _malakes_ noblewoman who ordered this from me has declined to send someone to retrieve it for her for several days now,” she said, “and so it sits in the back of my stall, unsold and taking up valuable space, when it could be in your hands instead, or draped around the shoulders of your beautiful wife.”

Percy blushed. “She’s not--I mean--”

“But because I am a generous businesswoman,” she interrupted, smirking, “show me what you have, and we may be able to come to some arrangement.”

The way she looked at him, all-knowing and altogether too familiar, compelled him to obey. Counting his coins, he laid out his paltry offering before her, the smattering of silver _stavrata,_ Venetian lira, and smaller, duller bronze coins making for a pitiful display, when his fingers fumbled, and a golden _drachma_ tumbled out of his hands, coming to rest before her. 

He froze, praying that she would not see it, or if she did, that she might mistake it for an Italian florin, and leave it be.

Naturally, of course, that is what she picked up, her eyes settling upon it almost instantly. 

“Well, well, well,” she said, looking at the coin with curiosity. “It has been some time since I have seen one of these.”

“Ah,” Percy started, flushing. That coin was not meant for mortals, and they had precious few of them to spare. “That--I--that is to say--”

“If you are looking for the gods,” she went on, peering at him with new eyes, “I could have saved you the trouble. They are not here. In truth, they have not blessed this land with their presence for some time.”

He blinked, astonished. 

With a kindly smile, she tucked the _drachma_ back into his coin purse, swiping some of the lira for herself. “I think this makes for an adequate trade, no?”

Still, he was rendered dumb and speechless.

“Keep an eye on your money, traveler,” she said. “You never know if you will find more.”

The noise of the city was dwindling, down from a lively hum to a low murmur, and the light turned even cooler as the cold moon rose over the cliff. Annabeth would most likely be worried at his long delay, or at least starving. But he could not force himself to move yet. “You’re--” he stammered, “you--”

“Yes, child,” she said. “Now, you should be headed off. The guards do not take kindly to stragglers wandering the streets so late at night.”

There were a million things he wished to ask this woman, important things, questions of ancestry and whether or not there were more of their kind nearby, but all that he was able to say was the terrible, sad news that he carried within his heart. “Constantinople has fallen,” he said. “The _agoge_ is gone.”

Bittersweet, she smiled, folding the shawl for him into a tight bundle. “I know.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “I had a dream.” And thus, she bade him good night.

In a daze, Percy wandered back to the inn where they were staying. On his way back, he had stopped to purchase some food like he promised her he would, settling a loaf of hard, cheap bread and some _kefalotiri_ , as that was all he could afford, but at least it would tide them over for the night, until they decided on the next course of action. 

When he returned, Annabeth was no longer lying prone on their bed, but sat upright, her back against the wall, eyes closed. She opened one as he entered, her hand automatically sneaking towards the folds of her dress where he knew she kept her knife, until, upon recognizing him, she relaxed, letting her hand fall back down to her lap. 

“Here,” he said, placing the parcels on the bed between them, though he kept the shawl tucked away against his chest, for now. “Dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said, quietly, taking the bread, picking at it with her fingers, slipping the teeniest of bites into her mouth. After some time, she noticed that he was not following suit. “You’re not eating.”

It was not a question. “Ah, I ate mine as I returned to the inn,” he said, easily. 

She stared at him, not at all convinced. 

“In any case,” he went on, eager to change the topic, “I have been thinking about what we should do next.” He had done nothing of the sort, but hopefully it would take her mind off of the obvious.

“So have I.” She put the bread aside, drawing her knees up to her chest, and hugging them. “I would like to go home.”

Percy frowned. Surely she did not mean Sigeion _._ She had already indicated her feelings towards the search for Chiron and the rest of camp, namely, that it would be a useless, fruitless, frustrating search, and surely she did not mean Constantinople, lost to the ages. What other home was there?

“You know that my mortal family does not hail from here.”

“I do.” It was not a piece of information well hidden; one only had to look at her pale skin, her blonde hair, and her looming figure to know that she was, in all likelihood, not one of the _Hellenes_ by blood.

She would not look at him, her fingers tapping random patterns over the fabric of her dress. “If he still lives, I should like to see my father.”

“Oh.” That was… unexpected. To anyone who knew her, there were a few core tenants of Annabeth as a person; her love of architecture was one of them, and her distaste for her father was another. 

“When I--left him, he lived in a city called Uppsala, far to the North of here.”

“How far?”

She gave him a rueful smile. “Svealand.”

Well. That was indeed quite far.

"I understand your trepidation," she said, suddenly very interested in the thin, rough bedsheets beneath her, "so if you would like to part ways at this time, I shall not stop you."

“You mean to travel to Svealand? On your own? That would take near on half a year.”

“To the East of Constantinople, there is an old trading route once used by the Norsemen to travel between their lands and ours,” she said. “A river by the name of _Danapris_.”

“A river?” he asked, skeptically.

“One that spans nearly the entire continent. In the time of Basileios II Porphryogennitus, this was the route which delivered his legendary Varangian guard. I know for a fact it has fallen out of use, and the tribes of the Kievan Rus’ no longer roam that area.”

He had never heard of those people before--not that it mattered. “Annabeth, it does not matter how fearsome and ferocious you believe you are, you cannot travel all the way to Svealand by yourself.”

She scowled at him, lips pulling back into a snarl. “I have done so once before.”

“The whole road? By yourself?”

“Well,” she hesitated, “no. Not the whole thing. But I traveled some of it, before Thalia found me.”

“Be that as it may,” for he knew she would attempt to traverse the whole way by herself, merely to spite him, “as Thalia once did for you, let me do as well. I shall accompany you to Svealand.”

Her eyes widened. “Percy, no. You should be looking for Chiron.”

“As you yourself have said, he could be anywhere,” said Percy, “and I may have all the time in the world to find him. In the meantime, I should very much like to see you safely returned to your father.”

“I told you, the road is long since abandoned.”

“And you’ll forgive me if I am skeptical of that fact. Not of you,” he said at the look on her face, “nor your vast pools of knowledge, but even you cannot predict whether or not you shall meet trouble along the road, and it would comfort me greatly if I were able to come along.” Sourly, she opened her mouth as if to argue, but he interrupted her. “Annabeth. You cannot convince me otherwise. I am coming with you.”

Eyes narrowed, she glared at him, before acquiescing. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Then we should rest. We shall leave at first light on the morrow.” On that abrupt note, she flopped down onto the bed, turning over once again, her back to him. “Good night, Perseus.”

The air was charged between them, with what he could not say, though he could nearly feel it shaking, as taught as bowstring. “Good night,” he said in response. Then, blowing out their room’s solitary candle, he laid himself down to sleep as well, his back to her, and thought not of the bundle of cloth he had purchased on a whim, not of how her golden braid might look against the dark blue fabric, and not of the sweet smile she had given him in the shadow of the Erechtheion. No, he thought of none of these things. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why tf is this part so long
> 
> glossary part 4~:  
> • for more information on the various buildings discussed, check out smarthistory on youtube! click here for their video on the [Parthenon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWDflkBZC6U), the [Erechtheion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ebYvMC12HI), and the [pediment sculptures](https://i.ytimg.com/an_webp/uF_W0jQ7bi0/mqdefault_6s.webp?du=3000&sqp=CNDH3PsF&rs=AOn4CLDIf8UkktV_eQw5WKfa_aRoO3LTdA), or binge their entire acropolis playlist [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLugP0T-YRCWKhEKi8v5zhX_bZyDNKovjI)  
> • shout out to dimitrios tsalkanis and his incredible [3D renderings of medieval athens](http://ancientathens3d.com/medieval-acropolis/)  
> • estelle is now named esther bc sally and paul are jewish  
> • stavrata: byzantine coinage  
> • kefalotiri: a type of hard cheese  
> • svealand: sweden  
> • danapris: greek name for the dnieper river  
> • varangian guard: did you know the emperors had a personal viking bodyguard squad?  
> • kievan rus': proto-russians


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter bumps up the rating a little, fyi, and also features several extremely self-indulgent headcanons (as if this whole story isn't an exercise in self-indulgence lmfao)

“We sail East,” she said, indicating their direction on the crude map she had drawn in the dirt of Piraeus Harbor, “following the path of the _Argo_ as it sailed towards Colchis. Once we have passed through the straits of the Bosphorus , then we shall turn North, hugging the western edge of the _Pontos Axeinos_ as we travel to Olbia.”

Percy frowned, squinting, leaning in closer in his crouch so as to see better. “Olbia? I have never heard of that place before.”

“Few have,” she said. “It has been abandoned near on a thousand years, which will make it the ideal place for us to rest a while once we have arrived. From there on, we will travel upriver on the _Danapris_ , for roughly three days' time, until we come upon the rapids.”

He started. “Rapids?” 

“Yes, Perseus, rapids,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You know, the portions of the river which are suddenly much faster than the parts surrounding it?”

“I do know what rapids are,” he snapped. Moreover, he knew how dangerous rapids could be, both within the river and without it. “You never mentioned that we would have to navigate through rapids.”

“What, are you so worried that your powers will fail you so far from the sea?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed. Oceans were, certainly, more his forte, but he could more than handle a mere river. “I simply would have liked to know beforehand that I must sail through rapids.” 

“I _am_ telling you beforehand.”

He scowled. “How many?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?!”

“And you will not have to sail through them; we will portage our ship around them, as the Varangians did.”

He stared, perturbed. That was her foolproof plan? To carry their boat from one end of the river to another? “You do know that will put us in considerable danger, yes? What is to stop us from being attacked by some wandering barbarian?” 

Her lips twisting, he could sense that he had won a point in their little repartee, much to her frustration and chagrin. “As I have said,” she spoke through gritted teeth, as though he were an imbecile, “the river road has long since fallen out of use. We will just have to pray that we are lucky.”

Raising his eyes to the heavens, Percy was starting to wonder if Annabeth was not, as she claimed, truly a daughter of Athena. “We will have to be more than lucky,” he said. “You know that your route will take us straight through the heart of Ottoman territory.”

If they followed her plan, then as they sailed the Bosphorus, they would have to travel right past Constantinople and the Golden Horn--not only that, they would have to travel unseen and undetected, for Prosphorion was surely littered with Ottoman ships and soldiers. For all their talents and strengths, should they be spotted by an enemy sailor, the two of them simply could not hold back an entire navy.

“Then we will rest at Sigeion the day before,” she determined, drawing a short, thin line in the sand, “and proceed after sunset. Once we have traversed the straits, we can keep to deeper waters until we pass the mouth of the _Istros_.”

The _Istros_ was quite far along up the coast, a fact with which, he knew, she was well acquainted. Did she expect him to be able to create fire on their vessel so that they could cook fish, in order to avoid making camp on unfriendly land? “This is insane,” said Percy. “Your plan is--lunacy, Annabeth.”

When she raised her head to look at him, his breath nearly caught in his throat. 

He had, as of late, come to the unfortunate realization that the woman who traveled with him was quite lovely. More than lovely, in fact; she had always been rather pretty, but in the short time they had been together, he was beginning to truly understand just how beautiful she really was. In fact, though he would be loath to admit it out loud, for even though the gods had vanished, he knew all too well what the consequences of such a brash action would be, he would go so far as to say that she was, perhaps, even more beautiful than any of the sea nymphs whom he had romanced in the past.

The sea nymphs all tended to favor his own coloring, with deeply tanned skin and glossy black hair. Annabeth, by contrast, had long, blonde locks, which, even dirty as they were, shone gold in the sunlight, neatly woven and pinned up to the back of her head, stunning in its simplicity. Surrounding her face, little gilded wisps of hair would escape her braid in the oppressive humidity, tightly coiled. Her skin was smooth, her mouth a comely shape, her neck long and graceful as a swan, and he knew firsthand just how strong she was. Those slate grey eyes peered at him, ringed with long, soft lashes, such a strange counterpoint to the hardened desperation which shone from them, wrinkling her forehead. 

“I know of no better way to Svealand,” said she, the breath almost barely leaving her body. “If we were to travel over land, we would still encounter the Ottomans, or the Latins, or the Franks, or whatever trouble the Fates would see fit to send our way. This way, on the _Danapris_ , is the fastest, safest road I can imagine; well worn but out of fashion, we can follow the river all the way to the Northernmost seas, and then make our way to my father’s home. And,” she blushed, and Percy was once again transfixed by her visage as roses, red and soft, blossomed on her cheeks, winding their way down her neck. He swallowed. “I thought--I mean, with your skills at navigation, I assumed--”

She did this for him, he realized then. She had selected a route which she thought would not only remove as many obstacles from their path as one could possibly account for, but would also grant him some measure of comfort and power in this strange land and even stranger time. The dissolution of their rivalry, the end to their parents’ legendary feud, she had taken it to her heart. 

He blushed in turn, his pulse racing. “Right,” he said, his tongue dumb in his mouth. “Yes. Of course. I can… yes.”

It was no longer a simple question of whether or not he could, but rather a question of how skillfully he would. Annabeth was counting on him to see her safely home, and he would be damned if he let her down now.

Though, he did have one additional concern. “Will our ship be able to sail upon the river?”

As one, they both looked towards the little _monoxylon_ which bobbed in the harbor. The little ship, which Percy had privately taken to calling the _Empress_ , was as crude as crude could possibly be, given that they had crafted it in a matter of days, helped along by some of their divine talents. It was, in all honesty, barely more than a dugout canoe, with a very primitive sail and rudder attached, but between the two of them, it had been solidly made. She was a sturdy ship, and fast, though that was, perhaps, more a function of Percy’s skill as a sailor than any testament to their combined aptitude for mathematics. 

All water gave him strength, but no water sustained him more than that of the sea, which was at once his birthright and the source of his power, so despite any perceived bravado on his part that he may or may not have displayed, the thought of sailing so far upriver was… unsettling. He never liked to be far from the sea if he could help it. 

“I don’t see why not,” she said, shrugging, seemingly unconcerned, though not well enough, as he had become so attuned to her body that he could see the tense line of her shoulders. “The Norsemen would sail their longboats back and forth with all of their crews and cargo; ours should be considerably less trouble, no?”

Well, she was not wrong. “Very well,” said Percy, standing up from his crouch, reaching for the sky as he stretched. With a satisfying _pop_ of his spine, he sighed, dropping back onto the balls of his feet, looking down at Annabeth, who stared up at him, her cheeks still flushed. “Shall we proceed?”

Standing as well, with a swipe of her foot, she erased her map. “We shall.”

And thus, they were off.

***

With the wind at their backs, Percy was able to shave roughly a day’s time off of their return journey to Sigeion, though, as they did not have an estimated time of arrival, he supposed, in the grand scheme of things, it did not matter much. The only tangible outcome at this time was that it put them in the path of the Ottomans that much sooner. 

As before, the sea was uncomfortably empty. Not still, for the water was ever flowing, the waves ever undulating, nor entirely devoid of life, for there was still fish a plenty to be found and eaten, but empty in the sense that some vital or integral component was missing from the whole. The winds and the waves were still there, but they felt incomplete, almost, the colors not quite as potent, the salty tang not quite as strong. It was as though he were left alone in someone else’s home after they had stepped out for a moment, a strange glimpse into a world in which he did not truly belong. All around him, the sea birds stood watch, gazing on him with cold, sightless eyes, watching impassionate as he passed beneath their gaze, heading ever eastwards.

With little fanfare, they passed over the spot where poor Helle had lost her life, as Annabeth was entirely embroiled with her weaving. He had not liked to watch her sulk, so withdrawn after they had departed from Athens, that he had given her something of a silly task to keep her occupied, and asked her to make them some more rope. Rope was never a thing to have too much of out at sea, and it gave her something to do with her hands. If he was being honest with himself as well, he would admit to enjoying watching her face as she wove, her furrowed brow, her pink tongue poking through her lips.

Making camp once again at Sigeion, Annabeth laid herself down for a nap in the shade of a tree near the shore, extracting a promise from him that he would allow her to take the night watch as they sailed that evening, for Percy had, by his own admission, been running himself somewhat ragged these past few days. The sea gave him power, yes, but he was not as infinite as he claimed, and even he required rest from time to time. However, as they cast off from shore that night, he found himself loath to wake her as she slipped into a deep sleep, for once not tossing and turning from the horrors that plagued her dreams, her face slack with exhaustion.

It was merely one more night. He would persevere.

And, perhaps, he thought she might not wish to see Constantinople like this.

Even in the dark, the broken walls were lit up with torches, the towers raised with poles of black horsehair, flying alongside red flags adorned with yellow crescent moons. It must have been time for evening prayers, for the singer’s voice carried past the walls of the city and over the still waters, hauntingly beautiful as always. How strange, he thought, that he could not find it in himself to hate this sound, even though the men who sang it had taken his city for their own. 

It was well into the dawn when at last, Annabeth awoke, her eyes slowly fluttering open. “Good morning, your majesty,” he could not help but jest from his position at the rudder, injecting as much humor into his tone as he could. 

“Percy,” she mumbled, sleepily indignant, as she rubbed her face. “You promised you would let me take the night watch.”

“I did,” he agreed, thinking quickly, for he did not want to show his hand, “but we caught an excellent wind last night, and I did not want to miss it. I swear to you, as soon as we sail into the _Pontos Axeinos_ , I shall relinquish command and take my rest.”

“See to it that you do.” She yawned, stretching her arms over her head. “Where are we?”

“We are coming up on the end of the straits,” said Percy, adjusting the length of a rope. “If this wind continues, we should pass through to the sea within the hour.” 

“Excellent.” Making her way from the other end of their ship, she came up beside him, leaning over the edge to peer at the water as it rushed beneath them. She adjusted remarkably well, he thought, for someone who was not used to sailing; on a vessel this small, people were prone to all manner of seasickness. “How fast can this thing sail, do you reckon?”

He frowned. “I am not certain,” he said. “Why?”

“We will need to make all possible haste if we are to survive the _Symplegades_ ,” she said, with an unconcerned air.

“The _Symplegades_?” he asked. 

She fixed him with a strange look, but one with which he was intimately familiar; it was the look that she gave him whenever he had done something she found particularly foolish. “The clashing rocks?” she said, as though that offered clarity. 

He did not recall such a thing, and he shook his head. 

“Honestly, _phykios_ , how is it that you were able to slay the Titan king, and yet you still somehow lack the most basic knowledge of our history?”

“Because I know that you will tell me of it,” he quipped. 

Her face twisting, she turned away, reaching for her unfinished project. “Then allow me to enlighten you; the _Symplegades_ are the rocks through which Jason and his Argonauts sailed on their journey to the court of King Aeetes.”

“And why, if I may ask, do we need to make all possible haste?”

“The rocks strike one another whenever a ship passes between them. The boats are either crushed between the stones, or they are smashed upon the beaches when they are caught in the monstrous waves.”

“How wonderful.” Now that she had said it, of course, he did start to recall the particulars of that story. “Jason escaped unscathed, did he not?”

“He sent forth a dove in his place to measure the speed at which they must sail, and then he matched it.” 

“Excellent. And you have a dove, I suppose, tucked away in your skirts for this very purpose?”

She glared, harrumphing, her lips turned in a frown as she diverted her attention back to her ropes. “Legend holds that the rocks were permanently frozen after Jason made his escape, but you know as well as I how these things come round again. Monsters never truly die, and as the cycle must always continue, surely these perils will as well.”

Peering over the edge of their boat, it did not look as though the water were any more or less dangerous than at the other end of the passage, held in the grip of the Ottoman navy. Nor did he hear any odd sounds, no noises which were not the gentle susurrations of the waves, or the cries of seabirds, or the billowing of their sail. If there were enormous, thundering rocks at the mouth of the Bosphorus, he could see no evidence of it.

Before very much longer, the coasts surrounding them began to widen, edging away from their craft as the land gave way to the mouth of the _Pontus Axeinos_. Annabeth lifted her head from her weaving, making her way to the bow of their boat. “Here,” she said, “we shall soon be upon the rocks.” 

She gave no order for him to speed up or slow their pace, so onwards they continued, steady, serene. 

“Any moment now,” she murmured. “Any moment.”

Percy tensed, preparing himself, Annabeth’s strong rope twisted in his grasp. 

“Be ready!” she called back to him, all her attention focused ahead. 

“On your mark,” he replied. Whatever their animosities, at this time he would happily defer to her command.

They sailed onwards. 

They met no resistance. 

Confused, Annabeth looked back, glancing behind them. Percy looked as well--they were well past the mouth of the straits, heading unimpeded in the open waters. 

“Shall I turn North?” he asked. 

“I…” Disturbed, nearly pale despite the warm dawn light, she looked back and forth, from bow to stern, searching for a solution which simply did not present itself. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “North.”

“Very good.” And he pulled the rudder, changing their course. 

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Where were the rocks?”

“Well,” Percy said, slowly, unwilling to upset her further, “you did say that the rocks were stopped. Perhaps they never came back to life.”

She fixed him with a look he could not bear to see on her face; bewildered and hurt, desperate and angry, a mosaic of sorrow and confusion crossed her lovely features. “Have you ever known a monster to stay dead?” she asked. “Any one at all? Pasiphae’s son returned to fight for the titans. The Furies chased you across the peninsula, even after death. Why should the _Symplegades_ be any different?”

With nothing but a thought, he commanded the vessel to sail itself for some time, for he was very tired, and he had been promised a rest. “I do not know,” he said, settling down on the least lumpy pile of their supplies for a morning nap. “My father’s court deserted, your mother’s temple neglected--who is to say that the monsters have not abandoned us as well?” 

Hearing no answer, he closed his eyes, letting the motion of the waves rock him to sleep. As he drifted off, he thought he heard the strangest sound--a mighty _boom_ , like the crack of thunder, though he could not sense any storm on the horizon. Perhaps, however, he was merely imagining things.

***

Percy had never traveled so far North in his entire life, and he did not enjoy it. The air seemed colder, almost, and harsher, the sun beating down on them, and yet providing no warmth nor comfort. Even the stars at night were strange, for while he saw the constellations of his youth-- _Chelae_ , the claws of the scorpion, _Cynosura_ , the dog’s tail, and, of course, the Huntress herself--but he could not see them as clearly as he once had. As the words on a paper scroll or a wax tablet, the stars would rearrange themselves before his very eyes, forming shapes he could not identify, until his vision swam and his heart would ache too deeply to continue looking. 

All that, and the ever-present threat of the Ottomans, of course.

Yet Annabeth was right, as she often was; once they passed the mouth of the _Istros,_ the Ottoman presence noticeably dropped, until, after an entire week had gone by without a single hint of another ship in the horizon, Percy had to admit that they were well and truly out of that particular danger, though he could not even begin to imagine what might lie ahead.

It was many days until they reached the ancient settlement of Olbia. He had tried to keep count, but the days slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving him adrift in the sea of time. Perhaps it had been months since the fall of Constantinople, or merely days. He could no longer tell. 

That night, once again, they made camp in the long shadows of an abandoned city. Their fire flickered against a squat stone wall built into the side of a hill, its vaults and ceilings long since destroyed. Percy took one corner, and Annabeth the other, sharing their meal of bread and fish. They had been sailing for so long, even he was beginning to feel it, his muscles so sore and aching that he almost could no longer feel them. When he glanced at Annabeth, she looked very much the same, staring into the heart of the flames with an almost empty, vacant gaze, the flickering lights reflecting dully off her golden hair. She was exhausted. They both were.

“Some water?” he asked. 

She shook her head, so minutely that were it not for the flames, he would not have thought she moved at all. 

Several days earlier, they had put to port in a town along the coast, a little seaside trading post with a white castle resting on top of the nearby cliff, a town which Annabeth had thought was called _Mavrokastron_ or _Moncastro_ or something similar to that. Having not heard Italian in several weeks, it had been something of a shock to the system to hear it spoken this far from Constantinople, though he was pleased to see that his rudimentary language skill had not yet been forgotten, as he was able to purchase a few more supplies for the road ahead. Being the son of a very famous fisherman, Percy could very easily be relied upon to provide the two of them with meat should they require it; things like bread and cheese were somewhat more difficult to procure on their own when constantly on the move. Acting on a whim, he had, with his leftover funds, purchased some dried fruit as well, something to save for a particularly hard day. Looking at Annabeth now, it seemed her hard day was well upon her. 

“Here.” He passed her the food parcel, laying it at her feet. “Help yourself to some figs.”

She did not pick it up. Were it not for the fact that he could very clearly see her breathe, see her blinking, she may as well have been a statue, propped up against the wall.

Percy looked down to the shore, where he had tied the _Empress_ to a nearby tree. She bobbed sweetly against the gentle tide, her sail fluttering in the nighttime breeze. “I think,” he said, carefully, for he knew from past experience that suggesting things contrary to Annabeth’s grand plan could result in disaster, “that we should take one more day here.”

No response. 

“Just one, mind you. I could do a few more repairs on our ship, catch some more fish--and I can almost certainly promise you that we will need more rope.” 

Still, she said nothing. 

“Very well,” said Percy. “I shall take your silence as assent, and shall begin work on the morrow.” 

“Fine,” said Annabeth, her voice barely more than a puff of wind. 

“Oh, so she does speak! And here I thought that you were so repulsed by my very presence that you could not bear to engage me in conversation.” 

“I am not ignoring you,” she said, “I am merely tired.”

He snorted. “Indeed. You must be exhausted after all that sailing you did.”

At any other time, Annabeth would have seized upon the chance to trade barbs with him, unable to resist the siren song of taking her mortal enemy to task. But not tonight, it seemed. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

An Annabeth who would not rise to his bait was a disturbing sight, indeed. He would rather have a traveling companion who would not cease in her berating, her irritation with him, her constant, acerbic comments towards his parentage and his intelligence, than this corpse who sat before the fire.

“I thought…” she murmured. 

“Thought what?”

With a sigh, she tipped her head back against the wall, watching the smoke rise. “I truly hoped she would be in Athens.”

“Your mother?”

She nodded. “I--I think I knew, deep in my heart, but I did not want to believe it. When you told me of your father’s empty halls, I had this… sinking feeling, in my chest, this feeling that something was wrong.” Bringing her hand to that offensive spot, she closed her eyes. “I did not realize what it was until we had passed through the clashing rocks unharmed.”

“Realize what?”

“That you were right, Percy. The gods, the monsters; they have all of them abandoned us.”

She had admitted that he was right; once upon a time, he would have thought there could be no greater reward, but now he would have given much for her to take it back. “You do not think it to be a coincidence?”

“I do not see how it could be otherwise,” she sighed, folding her legs beneath her. “I cannot remember the last time I went so long without encountering a monster of some manner or another. The two of us, together? It should, in theory, present an irresistible target. Do you not remember our first quest together?”

Despite the myriad and multitude of terrors that they had encountered as children, thrown together by a cruel twist of fate, time had transformed a few of the horrors into fond memories. “How could I forget? We had barely left the borders of camp before the Kindly Ones descended upon us.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but he thought he saw her lips quirk up in a smile. “And we destroyed that poor man’s wagon.”

“Smashed it to bits,” he confirmed. “The first of many.” 

Annabeth, almost reluctantly, chuckled. “We have shared many an adventure, haven’t we?”

“And once again, we find ourselves on another epic quest.” 

“But it is not merely another quest,” she said, her face once again sad and drawn. “There is no hero’s reward waiting for us at the end this time.”

He raised his water skin at her, in toast. “Here’s to your safe delivery, then, as that is all the reward that I shall require.”

“Well,” she said, reaching for the parcel of food at her feet, “my father is not without money. Should he still live, I am certain he would be happy to provide you with some measure of compensation.”

“Wonderful. Perhaps by the end of our journey, I will divine what to do with it.”

She hummed, thoughtful as she nibbled on a bit of dried fig. “What will you do,” she asked, “after we reach Svealand?”

Laying out his sleeping roll, he shrugged. “Become a sailor, I suppose,” he said, “if I cannot find Chiron and his students. Or perhaps I shall make my way to Aachen after all; Iason and Reyna promised me I would always have a place with the Legion.”

“You and your precious Legion,” she scoffed, though there was something darker underlying her tone, something cruel, and hateful.

“What you have against the Legion, I shall never understand,” he said, resting his head on the grass. “They are a good people; what’s more, they are our friends and allies.”

“The Legion were the ones who stole the _Parthenos_ ,” she said, bitter as sour fruit. “Just one of the many, many insults they have levied against my mother over the years.”

“Those men have long since passed,” said Percy. “Whatever your feelings towards them, the Legion of today is a far, far cry from the men and women of _Troia_.” 

Her brow furrowed, she shook her head, incredulous. “They stole _you_ , Percy.”

“They did not steal me, they found me,” he corrected. “Were it not for them, I would have died a thousand times over.”

“And as thanks, you begged them to brand you as a slave, I am sure.”

In truth, he had not had much of a choice in that matter. It all had happened so quickly; one moment, he had fended off an invasion of giants, and in the next, their augur had grabbed a hold of his arm, and the mark had appeared in a flash of light and pain, indelible proof of his service to Rome. In time, he had come to accept it as part of him, and to ignore it as such. “This is just their way, no more or less strange than our yearly talismans,” he said, though he had a feeling such a weak argument would do very little to convince her.

“It is _not_ the same,” she insisted. “A necklace can be removed. You are marked for life, and as a _romanus_.” And at that hateful word, she spat into the dirt.

“There is much worse that I could be than a soldier of Rome, Annabeth,” he said, quietly, for that was what he was still, was he not? Though he no longer fought with the Legion, he had spent his last years as a soldier for another relic of the once great empire.

She tilted her head, almost curious, were it not for the mocking gleam he could detect in her eye. “What would they offer you to betray the _Hellenes_ , hm?” Folding her hands in her lap, she leaned forward, a cruel smile stretching across her pretty face. “A province to govern? A seat in the Imperial Senate? Or perhaps a pretty Roman bride, awaiting you in your villa in Aachen? On your return from Svealand, will you find Reyna at your hearth, or any other Roman lady?”

It was not an unfamiliar accusation. Similar taunts had been levied at him before, by his less understanding comrades at camp. “No,” he said, dully, “I am not interested in a Roman bride--nor is a Roman bride interested in me.”

Her brows shot up. “Now that,” she said, “I cannot believe. You mean to tell me that you spent so many months among the Legion, and yet not one girl thought to snap you up as a husband?”

As a child of the elder gods, Percy was set apart from his peers in a few small, but rather distinct ways. There were certain powers he possessed, certain tricks and charms that he could utilize, and certain statuses that he would not claim that he did not enjoy, from time to time. Unfortunate as it was, for womenfolk, they often found themselves in the unenviable position of having to secure for themselves a good man for a husband, one who could provide status and comfort both, and all the women Percy knew were very, very clever. They knew what to seek in a partner, and they tended not to be shy about their intentions. More than once had Percy been approached by one of his fellow campers, who thought that she might cultivate quite a match for herself, as surely a son of Poseidon and a hero of Olympus should make for an excellent husband. Alas, once they had discovered that he had little more to offer than a mortal fisherman could, they elected not to pursue him further.

On the whole, he did not mind it terribly. He did not speak of it often, but he had always wished to follow in his mother’s footsteps, and marry for love, rather than for politics or protection. Had he been married to a woman he did not care for in that manner, he predicted that he would be a poor husband indeed. It would not be fair to either of them, he thought, unless he was as truly devoted to her as she was to him. 

“I was no more a choice for a woman of the Legion than I would have been for a woman from the _agoge_ ,” he said finally, after some time. “And there is none that I have known, either.” He smiled, indulging in a memory. 

She raised an eyebrow. “You have never lain with a woman?” she asked, voice dripping with ill-concealed contempt.

“No mortal woman, no.” For he had had the good fortune to romance a nymph or two, a goddess here or there. There had been Calypso, on the island of Ogygia; Thetis, in the court of his father’s palace; a nereid or two with particularly pretty smiles and delicate wrists. The immortal women he had known did not require much of anything from him beyond his time and his affection, which he was more than pleased to provide… and occasionally his tongue, as well.

“But a mortal man?” asked Annabeth, well and truly curious now.

He froze.

Percy was not ashamed of much in his life, and he was most assuredly not ashamed of the time he had spent with Iason. He had been a good man, handsome and strong, and he had found Percy equally as beguiling as Percy did him. Theirs had been more than a mere soldiers’ romance, and he held no shame in his heart at the things that they had done to each other. Yet for some reason, he did not wish to divulge this information to Annabeth. It was not, he knew, because he thought she might shame him for his choice of sexual partner; at the _agoge_ it was quite common to hear of a man lying with another man, or a woman with a woman. As their ancestors had done, mighty names such as Achilles, or Sappho, or even the gods themselves, so too did the half-divine children of the _Hellenes_ not always limit themselves to the opposite sex. 

No, he did not wish to share his name, because he did not want to hear her heap further scorn on his Roman allies. 

“Yes,” he said. “I have.” And that was all the information he shared. 

“I see,” said Annabeth, coloring lightly. “You are one of those sorts of heroes, then.”

He started, something hot bristling in his stomach. “How do you mean?”

“Like Achilles and Patroclus,” she said. “Or Alexander and Hephaestion.”

Who would feel shame, to be included among such vaulted company? Certainly not Percy. “And if I am?” he asked, raising his head. “Would that present a problem for you?” 

If it did, perhaps she would get her wish, and would leave her to travel alone after all.

“Don’t be foolish,” she said, with a withering glare. “Of course not. I simply… did not realize.” She was flushing again, visible even against the dim firelight. Annabeth, he had noticed, tended to blush with the whole of her, her body curling in on itself, crossing her arms and looking away from him. “I--find it difficult to believe, is all.”

“What?”

“That you did not pursue a relationship with Rachael.”

Confused, he sat up, frowning. “You know she is obliged to be a maiden, yes?”

“I meant before then.” Beneath long lashes, she glanced at him for a single, sweet moment. “I know you two were close before she became Apollo’s priestess.”

They had been, the summer of the great prophecy. Struggling beneath a burden to rival that of Atlas, Percy had sought some measure of escape from the camp and from his destiny, an escape which Rachael had provided to him. She had granted him a dream and a fantasy, a small sliver of hope in a time when all those around him had been sure that he would perish come summer’s end. Even Annabeth would sometimes look at him as though she were preparing to weave his funeral shroud once more. 

That summer, things had been very strange between the two of them, Percy and Annabeth. She had been struggling, he knew, to come to terms with the deep betrayals that Lukas had committed, and she had not been as kind to Percy as, perhaps, she had meant to be. He had forgiven her for it, of course--he in turn had not always comported himself so properly--for they had both borne their respective weights, and had not always supported each other as friends and allies should. More simply put, Rachael had been there for him, when she had not.

“No,” he said. “We had considered it, but…” 

But Rachael had been cleverer than he, and had eventually turned him away, with a knowing grin, bidding him instead to seek out someone else. 

Someone whom he had known since he was a boy. Someone who had weathered all sorts of storms by his side. Someone who had defied her mother and declared her allegiance to him, should the gods ever force their children to fight against one another. Someone who even Rachael could see that he had long admired.

Lying back down, raising his eyes to the stars, he said, “I did not feel for her as she did for me,” a simple summation for a complex time, and one which he prayed she would understand, and then leave it be. “And so we remained friends.”

And, well, he had thought, after the war, after the funeral games for those who had fallen in battle, once peace and serenity had returned to their borders… he had wondered. Perhaps he had even hoped. 

Unfortunately, not four months later, he had gotten entangled with the Legion. By the time he made his way back to Chiron and the _Hellenes_ , it appeared that Annabeth had grown to hate him even more strongly than she had when they had been children. For her, the Latins were an even more hateful enemy than the children of Poseidon; one could, apparently, be overcome, but both together? Unthinkable, in her eyes. And so these two, thrown together by circumstance, had been pulled apart, until the distance between them was so great, he had been sure that Annabeth had been lost to him forever, and had thus let her go.

Then, of course, the Fates had seen fit to bring them together again--though, for what purpose, he could not possibly imagine.

For a few minutes, there was silence between them, no sound save for the crackling of the fire, and the quiet movement of the waves. 

Then, Annabeth said, “Hm.”

Percy turned his head towards her. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” With efficiency, she spread out the remains of their fire, so that it would burn itself out while they slept, and set about unrolling her own bedroll. “I was merely thinking that I would have won the pot, is all.”

Oh, he did not think he liked at all what she was implying. “The pot?”

She stilled, her bedroll unfurled halfway. “I’ve said too much.”

Unfortunately, she did not need to say much else. “The Stolls, I presume?”

Annabeth smiled at him, though it reminded him more of a pained grimace.

Rolling his eyes, he flopped back down.

“It was a very eventful summer,” she said. “You cannot blame them for attempting to lift our spirits with a little harmless fun.”

“Need I remind you that everyone was under the impression I would not survive the war?”

“And yet, here you remain.” A little ungracefully, she stretched out next to him, giving a great, massive yawn, and he turned towards her. “A gift for which the men of the Legion were very grateful, no doubt.”

His eyes widened. “How did you--”

She glanced at him with familiar contempt. “If you had lain with someone from the _agoge_ ,” she said, as though she spoke to a simpleton, “everyone would have heard about it before breakfast the next morning.”

Ah, the children of Athena. Impeccable logic, as always. 

“Very well,” said Percy, his cheeks heating up. “Since I have divulged such personal secrets, it is only fair that I am privy to some in return, no?”

Snorting, she turned over on her side, away from him. “I agreed to no such terms.”

“Come now, Annabeth,” he whined. “That’s not very sporting.”

In truth, he had spent many years wondering what sort of man had caught her fancy, after the likes of Lukas, whose appeal Percy understood all too well. He’d spent too many years in her orbit to not want to know what kind of a person could win her heart. Now that they had reestablished their acquaintanceship, would anyone blame him for mere curiosity?

“Give me a secret worth sharing, then,” she said.

The moon, bright and beautiful, hung low in the sky. By the light of the fading fire, her hair shone like copper, her shawl settling around the curve of her shoulder, her hip, fabric folds like the stars of a constellation whose shape he had only just discovered. For one single, delirious second, he thought--he considered telling her the truth, a truth so deep and powerful, yet unknown to him until this very moment. The truth, that his youthful admiration had become his first love. The truth, that though it had faded alongside their friendship, it had never truly gone away. The truth that now, in this moment, as he lay next to her on their bed of grass and earth, it blazed with more passion than anything else he had ever known. 

He swallowed. 

“If you had asked me to, I would have followed you to the Morea,” he said, “and supported your claim to the throne.”

After a second, she rolled over to look at him. Her eyes were dark and piercing in the moonlight, her gaze enchanting and unreadable.

“Is that sufficient?” 

He may as well have just come out and told her that he loved her. It felt like he was admitting the same thing.

Her mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “And they all claimed that you were no strategist,” she said.

That was… not the reaction he had expected from her. “How do you mean?”

“Ingratiating yourself to your future empress; very clever indeed, Perseus.” 

“I am being sincere,” he said.

“And I do not doubt it. You would have pursued an action that you know would have resulted in a great reward, had we succeeded.” 

Frowning, he lay down on his back, closing his eyes. “That is not why I would have done it.”

The silence stretched between them, long and empty. She must have fallen asleep, he thought. He could open his eyes and see for himself, but he stubbornly kept them shut. For whatever reason, he could not disturb the fragile space between them, every hard won inch, he knew, so easily shattered by a misspoken word or an imprecise countenance. 

So softly, he thought he might have imagined it, he heard her say, “Clarice.”

Slowly, he turned to look at her.

She lay on her back as well, her gaze pointed squarely at the stars. The fire had nearly burnt out, but her skin and hair still shone in the moonlight. 

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“The first person I had relations with was with Clarice.”

He blinked. “Clarice.”

“Yes.”

“The daughter of Ares.”

“The very same.”

Of all the revelations he thought she might share, he had not been expecting that one. “You know I have to ask.”

The corner of her lips quirked up in a smile. “She was stronger, but I was faster. Her hands, however--very big.”

Percy had seen Annabeth throw men twice her size across the arena. He had seen Clarice shatter shields with her magic spear. The thought of the two of them, together, in that manner, was… 

He shifted, attempting to find a new and more comfortable position for his hips. “Athena and Ares,” he murmured, half in a daze. “Who would have thought?”

“And not just her--Katya as well.”

“Really.”

“Mmhmm.” He could not see in the dim light, but he thought she might have been blushing again.

He chuckled to himself, smiling. As she knew him of old, he knew her, and he knew that she was not one to divulge such details so lightly. Despite his pride and his self-assurance, it was always a deep, deep comfort to know that there was someone else who enjoyed the company of men and women both. To think, despite all their differences, how similar they were in their fundamentals still. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

And without much further ado, he turned over, and he went to sleep.

Immediately, he knew he was dreaming.

No longer in the shadow of the ancient stone wall, now he lay upon rich velvet rugs and brilliantly ornate pillows, woven with thread of gold and silver, the fabrics dyed deep blues and purples. All around him was the scent of saffron, mint, and honey. And the woman next to him… the woman next to him… 

On the top of her golden head rests an equally golden crown, studded with precious gems of red and blue and green--the tiara of the _Basileia_ , he knows it to be. She smiles at him with her silver eyes, her ruby lips and pearly teeth, lifting a delicate hand to him. Just below her ears, from which dangle a pair of lustrous, jeweled earrings, her hair comes down in two long, thick, even plaits, over her shoulders and her breasts, which Percy now realizes are bare. He and the mighty Roman Empress Ana Zabeta, for that is surely who she is, lay side by side, she entirely unclothed save for the crown on her head. 

“My love,” she murmurs, trailing her fingers up his arm, “why do you hide yourself from me? Do you regret this time we have together?”

“No, my lady,” he finds himself replying, not in control of his actions in this fantasy. “Of course not.”

“Then come closer, _phykios_ , and kiss me.”

And he would not refuse an order like that.

Her lips taste of wine and honey, her skin is smooth as marble. Acting on an instinct he did not know he possessed, he brings his hands to her small breasts, rolling a nipple under his thumb, and is rewarded with her ardent sigh, a deep, throaty moan which vibrates into his own mouth. Braver now, he crawls on top of her, and knows he has done the right thing by the smile which presses itself to his chin. Then he is the one who is kissing her neck, and he travels further down, a road map of her body, kissing every inch of her he can reach.

“Yes,” she whines, so sweetly, the further down he goes. He kisses the skin at her hips, squeezing the soft flesh of her ass, and she moans again, sweeter than any music. “Yes, Percy,” she cries as he brings his mouth above her center, pressing his nose into the beautiful golden curls there, and breathing deep. “Percy,” she groans, “Percy, Percy--”

“Mm?” He muttered, his face mashed into the dirt.

“Percy.”

He blinked, the cold sunlight streaming directly into his eyes, disorienting. “Wuh…”

“Wake up.” 

Raising his head a little, he was greeted by the Annabeth more familiar to him, who was busy starting up their campfire, her curls thrown wildly by the morning wind. “You said that you wished to make repairs to the boat this morning, did you not?” she asked.

“Ahm--yes, I--let me just…” It came to his attention, suddenly, that he was quite erect, his cock pressing into his bedroll, and he was liable to try to make love to this cloth if he were left alone with his thoughts for a minute longer. “Let me… relieve myself. Yes.”

She grunted, entirely absorbed in her task. Thank the gods for the gift of half-blood focus, he thought.

With an odd sort of waddle, he made his way over to a small group of trees. When he was certain she could neither see nor hear him, he freed himself from his trousers, working quickly to bring himself to completion, among the sounds of morning birds, the scrape of his fingers on tree bark, his choked, bitten off groans as he fought for his silence.

It did not take him very long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can have a slice of jercy on the side, as a treat
> 
> glossary for part 5:  
> • Pontos Axeinos: the Black Sea  
> • Olbia: ancient classical settlement in Ukraine, near Kherson  
> • Istros: Greek name for the Danube, effectively the border of the Roman empire  
> • monoxylon: basically a dugout canoe, the smallest and most basic of ships  
> • "where poor Helle had lost her life": the Hellespont/the Dardanelles, also part of the Jason myth  
> • Chelae, Cynosura, the Huntress: Libra, Ursa Minor, and Zoe constellations, respectively  
> • Mavrokastron/Moncastro: another ancient classical settlement in Ukraine, now the city of Bilhorod-Dnistrovskyi  
> • the SPQR tattoos are aesthetic asf but the ancient Romans rly only used tattoos to mark slaves, so... gotta deal w that  
> • romanus: latin for Roman  
> • Achilles/Sappho/Patroclus/Alexander/Hephaestion: classical homos  
> • Lukas, Clarice, Katya: Luke, Clarisse, and Katie Gardner, respectively


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the magnificent, stupendulous, effervescent, incroyable, all around MVP Darkmagyk. Go read her fics and shower her with comments and love, pls 💙

It came upon him quite suddenly, and with no hint of a warning.

They had stayed two extra days in the ancient settlement at Olbia, for which Percy was extraordinarily grateful. He had spent much of the first day in something of a state of total exhaustion; after his morning ministrations, he had sat himself in front of the _Empress_ , fully intent on making her riverworthy by lunchtime, and the next thing he knew, Annabeth had been shaking him awake, the sun frighteningly low in the sky. Thankfully, she did not comment on his fatigue, but suggested that they extend their rest for one more day, citing her own need for rest, rather than drawing attention to his. 

That extra day had worked wonders for his health, however, and on the third morning, they set sail on the _Danapris_ , with clear eyes and bright spirits, leaving the _Pontus Axeinos_ behind entirely. The current did not prove to be much of an issue, thankfully, the waters easily obeying his commands, and they made good time traveling Northwards. 

For the first time in quite a while, he was feeling rather good about his situation. Yes, he was cast adrift from his people, and yes, he was harboring the most secret of devotions towards a woman who, were it not for their circumstances, likely would have nothing to do with him--yet the sun was high, the wind was swift, and the _Empress_ sailed smoothly. As a son of the sea, there was not much else that Percy required. 

So, of course, that was when he felt it.

His friends had, once upon a time, attempted to relate to him the feeling of suddenly being beneath the waves. It had been mostly described as a feeling of shock, an abrupt disturbance to one’s sense of self, cold and terrible. For Percy, who thrived in the water, he could not sympathize, not one iota. Submerging himself in the ocean felt like coming home, like his father’s warm embrace, a rare and precious gift among children of his kind. To dread and fear it would be anathema to his very being.

He imagined this is what his friends had attempted to describe. 

The cold draped over him like a cloak, fastening around his neck, blanketing his shoulders and his spine. Percy felt as though something had scratched long, spindly nails across his most sensitive nerves, jarring and grating, sending shivers up and down his skin. 

He felt seasick--a virtual impossibility, but that was the only way he could make sense of it. He felt as though there was something churning in his stomach, pulling him back and forth along an invisible line, so small it could be nearly undetectable, were it not for the fact that, should this continue for much longer, he would be violently ill. 

Something pulled at his heart, grasping, fingers threading their way through his ribs and wrapping their digits around his bones, holding him down, holding him back, but the current of the river could not be broken so easily, and he was yanked forward, falling to his hands and knees to the deck with a violent _thud_. 

“Percy!”

He could not even enjoy the fact that Annabeth had rushed to his side in concern. 

Her hands patted at his shoulders and his neck, propping him upright against the side of their boat. “Percy,” she said, worry warping her sweet voice, “Percy, what is it? Are you ill? Should we stop? If you require it, we can take another day to rest--”

“What was that?” he wondered, hissing as he tried to sit up straighter. His abdomen ached, the muscles seizing as though he had been put through one of Clarice’s more intense training regimens, and he nearly folded over again, pulled tight. In a flash, one of Annabeth’s hands was at his stomach, rubbing over the taut flesh in a soothing, relaxing manner. “It felt--” he gasped, “it felt like--”

“Breathe, Percy,” she murmured. “Give yourself a moment to breathe.”

Closing his eyes against the cold light of the sun and the sudden sting of tears, he breathed in as Chiron had taught him, first through the nose, then held for a count of four, then released through the mouth. Little by little, he relaxed, the muscles easing beneath her fingers. He shuddered, his breath coming in short, sharp pants, his whole frame shaking as she continued to gentle him. 

In any other situation, this arrangement would have felt like something plucked straight from one of his dreams, only now he could feel no pleasure at the touch of her hand. There was only shame and sorrow in him, a groaning loss for something that he could not name swelling deep inside of his body, a coldness from within. He felt empty, as though pieces of him had suddenly vanished, stolen by the chill hand that had crept its way into his body. 

But all waves must crest, and this one did as well, crashing over him in a final, agonizing swell, before ebbing back into the fog of unidentified emotion, leaving behind a void of feeling. 

“There,” said Annabeth. “Just breathe.”

Slowly, he came back into himself, his consciousness spreading once again into each nerve and extremity. His breath was harsh, panting, and all at once, they both realized that Annabeth’s hands were still on him, long after they should have been. She retracted them, a faint blush dusting her nose and her cheeks. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, looking just left of his ear.

“Yes,” he groaned, feeling nothing of the sort, “I am fine, I merely--ugh.” He shook himself, rather like a dog, as though he could liberate himself from the phantom feeling of fingers around his heart. “Did you feel that?”

She frowned, her lip between her teeth. “I… no. Not--not like you, clearly.”

“ _Malaka_.” Groping around with a hand, his fingers only met the hard wood, until Annabeth, somehow able to divine his needs, pressed her waterskin into his hand. He did not drink from it, but poured it over his head instead, and the familiar feeling helped pull him back into himself. “That was most unpleasant.”

“Should we stop for a rest?” she asked. 

On unsteady legs, he pulled himself up, grasping the edge of the _Empress_ for support, Annabeth rising with him, her hands fluttering about his person like frantic birds. “No,” he grunted. “We have tarried here too long already. I shall be fine.”

“Are you sure? I am more than happy to--”

The _Empress_ jerked forward. “Enough,” Percy said. “We continue on. Tighten the sail.”

Casting him a doubtful look, nevertheless, she complied, and they return to their speedy, steady glide. She retreated to the bow of the boat, her gaze turned ever North, so she could not see Percy curl himself over the lip, nearly folded in half, his stomach roiling as he peered into the depths of the _Danapris_.

The river was freshwater--he could smell it, could sense it in the vapors coming off of the surface, settling into his very skin--its color a deep, deep blue, a careless brushstroke through the emerald green fields and forests which surrounded them, at once familiar and so utterly alien to his sensibilities. It was not empty, no, for he could sense the fish and the insects and the birds which depended on it for its very survival, but it felt… strange.

There were presences, he could tell, down at the bottom of the river, spirits of the water who watched them pass, cold and apathetic. Had he not been a wiser man, he may have mistaken them for naiads, who pledged their fealty to his father, and honored the lord of the sea, though they did not serve in his court. The naiads would give Percy the same honors, should he happen upon their homes, or require their assistance.

These spirits, he knew, would not. 

_We bear you no ill will,_ he thought, sending his request down to the spirits below, though perhaps foolishly, as he was unsure whether or not they would heed his words at all, let alone comply. _Let us go in peace_. 

No creature made to stop them, neither magical nor mundane, and Percy and Annabeth carried on in silence.

Then, the voice. 

_Tarry not,_ thalassinos, he thought he it say, a slithering, whispering thing, sliding through his ear, winding its way down his spine. _Be on your way, and do not return, lest you and the_ svear _come to an unfortunate end._

Annabeth looked back at him, worry creasing her brow. He gingerly sat himself down in the stern of the ship, his hand still clutching the wood of the boat, for support, for something real, something he could grasp and touch and know to be solid. 

Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back, breathing as quietly as he could. In the silence of his thoughts, he imagined that he could hear these strange river spirits still, chattering away to themselves in a language he did not understand, honeyed and smooth and dark all at once, words of gossip and of warning.

In its most wild spaces, it seemed that the world still possessed some magic after all. Here in these lands so strange to him, at least there was power to behold, magic to be seen and felt and known. Unlike the Aegean, the court of Poseidon. Unlike his home, now lost to the merciless march of time.

Percy tried to find comfort in that.

***

Seven rapids, Annabeth had told him. Well, by his count, they were on the fifth.

Portaging the _Empress_ had not, as he feared, been too difficult a task to undertake. They were both quite strong for their small frames, as well as, in Percy’s case, bolstered by a quick touch of the river. When they could not tip the boat upside down, as the mast prevented them from doing so, they took their cue from their old Ottoman enemies, and cut down a few of the thinner trees in order to make a portable log road. Annabeth, using her ropes, devised a pulley system, and between the two of them, they made fair enough time. 

Fair enough time, he said. In truth, it was long, grueling work. Each cataract took the better part of a day to circumnavigate, and this was just the two of them and their pitifully dwindling amount of food. Percy simply could not imagine the time and effort it had taken to move great, big Viking longships, with all their passengers and cargo, back and forth, South and North. The very thought of it was enough to cause his head to ache. 

It was the fifth day, and Percy was unloading the logs which they had taken with them up the river, the _Empress_ docked on the shore. Another clever idea from his companion; this way, they could reuse the wood they had already gathered, and they would not have to waste time cutting more trees for a similar purpose. Annabeth had gone on ahead to scout their path, as she had done each day prior, for the way was no longer so clear, and they did not want to expend their energy on pointless endeavors. 

A grave error, as they would soon come to discover. 

The roaring of the waters of the rapid could be heard even this far away from it, a wall of titanic sound, yet even that was shattered by the piercing scream which rang out all around him. 

Percy froze, casting around his gaze. “Annabeth?” he called after a moment, but he received no response. 

Then again, a scream. 

It was unmistakably hers. 

Dropping the log onto the dirt, he charged North in the direction of the terrible sound, his steel sword drawn and at the ready. He and Annabeth had kept their mortal weapons on their person for this very purpose, in case they should meet mortal danger upon the road, though of course, he had his magical blade in his pocket should he ever require it. 

He was not sure which danger he would have preferred.

Up ahead, he could hear men’s voices, talking loudly amongst themselves, in a tongue he could not understand, but oh, he recognized that tone of voice they had, boorish, oafish, and cruel. Skidding to a sort of a stop, he ducked behind a tree, Annabeth’s soft voice suddenly in his ear, bidding him to have a look about his surroundings before he did anything rash or foolish. Heart in his throat, he peeked round the trunk, his battle-honed instincts absorbing the field in a single second: three men, armored in patchwork; no horses that he could see nor sense, which implied a lack of reinforcements to come; three swords brandished, two of a more reasonable size and one absolute brute of a blade, which looked as though it had to be wielded by two hands; Annabeth, on her knees, snarling up at the man who had her hair in his fist.

Percy saw red.

The man nearest him, the poor soul, never even saw it coming. One moment he stood, leering at his captive, then the next, he toppled over, red blooming through the weave of his unprotected back. 

Fortunately for the brute who dared to lay his hands on Annabeth, Percy’s path to him was blocked by the barrel-chested man with the long, heavy sword, who leveled his weapon at Percy’s chest, sneering. He should have probably thanked his own god, whoever it might have been, that Percy was so far from the River right now. Because if they had been even a few paces closer, he’d probably already be drowning where he stood. 

Ugly, pale-faced, and foul, he jerked his head towards Annabeth. “ _Gunai_?” he asked, hairy brow raised, then laughed at Percy’s deepening scowl. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Annabeth move up off of her knees to a kind of crouch, subtle enough that, to the man who held her, it seemed that she was merely struggling. Once she caught his gaze, she flicked her eyes downwards, towards her feet, where he saw that she had moved the bulk of her weight to one leg, the other one outstretched. 

She would trip her target, leaving the man with the long sword to Percy. A part of him, eternally fourteen and as annoyed with the daughter of Athena as he was in love with her, rankled at the thought that she did not actually need his help, but the more rational part of himself--even from that time--knew that, sometimes, she did. And in those times, they could work together towards victory, as always.

So to draw the men’s attention from her, he let out a battle cry worthy of Pan, and let loose upon the larger man with a strident clash of metal on metal. In his periphery, he saw a flash of brown, then a yelp and a muted thud. Unfortunately, he could not spare any more attention to Annabeth, who had her situation well in hand, it sounded, as the brute with the giant sword bore down on him. 

Percy’s arms shook as their blades met, again and again. Clearly, this man was used to his strength and height working towards his advantage, for he loomed large over Percy, and Percy was not a small man. Step by step, he hammered at Percy’s guard, forcing him back towards the edge of the clearing. His blade skipped off of Percy’s, glancing him in the arm, leaving a line of searing fire, and Percy cried out.

For any normal man, he would have been doomed, up against such a monster. For Percy, however, who at the tender age of twelve had challenged the god of war to a duel and won, it was not so much of a challenge. 

Sidestepping the man’s ever-widening slash, he darted in with his shorter sword, cutting a line through the skin of his exposed stomach. As a mighty tree, the man crashed to the ground, falling face first into the dirt. 

He turned to see Annabeth similarly victorious over her own opponent, her clothes disheveled and askew, her hair thrown wildly about. Where he lay on his back, the handle of a knife stuck out from his chest, sunken deep into his body. With a growl, she spat on the man’s corpse, and she hissed, “ _Patzinak!_ ”

“Are you alright?” He asked, eyes scanning her body for any sign of an injury. 

“I am fine, _phykios_ ,” she snapped, then paused, as she seemed to remember all that had just transpired. She looked at him with a frown, then asked, “Are you?”

“It is only a flesh wound.” He held up his arm so that she could see for herself. 

“They probably have a water skin around here somewhere,” she said. “We can treat you and then clean off.”

The men may have had a camp nearby, but perhaps they carried water on them. Kneeling down, he gingerly lifted the dead man’s body from the ground, searching for any supplies he may have had.

“Oh…” he heard Annabeth then groan. Frantic, he whirled towards her, terrified he had missed some life threatening wound upon her person, tormented by visions of her pale and bleeding--but no, she remained upright, standing tall and proud, her long hair gathered in her hands as she looked at it distastefully. “ _Malaka_ ,” she swore under her breath. “This will be an absolute nightmare to clean.”

Percy opened his mouth, ostensibly to offer his assistance, or some comfort, but… well, she was not incorrect.

What was not covered in dirt was hopelessly, perhaps irreversibly tangled up on itself, a bird’s nest of black gold, limp and ragged and lifeless. Where the dead man had grasped it in his fist, it clumped together in thick, rigid lines, matted with dark blood. 

Chewing her lip, she contemplated her hair, then turned back to the bandit who still lay bleeding a few feet away. “Percy,” she said, her voice sort of far away. “You should cut my hair.”

He was so startled he dropped his sword, inhaling his own saliva, nearly choking on it. “Wha--” he stammered, “what--”

“It is more trouble than it’s worth, truly,” she said, demonstrating her point as she tried to untangle a particularly stubborn curl. “Rather than waste time trying to fix it, it should be easier for you to remove it.”

“I--” he coughed. “But, why me?” Percy winced at his tone, hoarse and broken. “Surely you could cut it off yourself.” The blood was mostly on the end bits, hanging down over her shoulder and her… well, they were easily within her grasp. 

Annabeth pursed her lips, casting her eyes to the ground. “I…” she swallowed. “It will not be even if I do it myself,” she offered, weakly. “And I will not be able to reach it all.”

Stepping over the fallen trunk, she made her way over to him, her knife in her hand, wiping the blood off on her dress, a sight which Percy knew well. Annabeth had had him at knifepoint more times than he cared to remember, sometimes seriously, sometimes in a joking manner, but now she held it out to him, hilt first, grey eyes shaded and unreadable. 

“I would ask this favor of you, Percy,” she said. “Please.”

For a moment, they only breathed together. The wind blew gently, the fallen leaves at their feet wrapping them in a circle of jade and emerald, entwined.

He nodded. “Very well,” he said, taking the knife from her hands. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned round, presenting her hair and her back to him.

A dangerous position for a daughter of Athena, he supposed, to turn her back on a son of Poseidon, armed with a knife. 

He tucked the knife in his belt, and lay a hand on her shoulder instead, and she jumped. “I apologize,” he said. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“It--it is fine.” He brought his hand to her hair, and her shoulders tensed even further. “Proceed as you will.”

“I will cut about here,” he said, fingering the muddy strands just below her shoulder. “Above where it is most saturated with blood.” She could still braid it then, though not as gloriously as before.

Her hair moved in his hand as she shook her head. “Further.”

This close, he could feel her shiver as he moved his hand higher. Now, it lay at the base of her neck. Her skin was warm, the little hairs there soft against his palm. “Here?” he asked. 

“Further.”

His eyes widened. “You can’t mean--”

“I do,” she said. “I want it all gone.”

This was extreme, to say the least. “Are you certain? Surely it cannot be that difficult to keep so tidy.” 

And, well, perhaps he was being selfish. Such beautiful hair, it gave her the air of a princess. _Or an empress_ , his traitorous mind supplied him, a noble, golden woman, whose hair fell down in twin plaits over her body--

“Those men targeted me,” she said, cutting into his poorly-timed fantasy, “because they thought me to be your… because I am a woman.” He could not see her blush, but he could feel it, hot against his hand. “I should not like to experience that again. I can don a shirt and trousers with ease, but my hair is too obviously a symbol of my gender, and thus, I should like to part with it, for we still have a long way to go before we reach my father’s house.”

Of course. This was a precautionary measure, one that might better ensure her safety. Feeling rather ashamed of himself for his impure thoughts towards, he put all notion of her beautiful, beautiful visage aside, and resolved to grant her this favor. Her hair, her appearance, her loveliness, these things did not matter, he chastised himself furiously, in comparison to her health and security. 

“Alright,” he said, so softly. “Allow me.”

He had some experience with braids. His darling sister, little Esther, had their mother’s long brown hair, thick and wavy, which puffed up in the humidity of summer, wild and untamable. In this respect, Annabeth’s hair was quite similar, though of course, the mud and blood made it somewhat stiffer. Still, he persevered, weaving strand over strand in order to more easily remove it in one fell swoop, and with each pass of his hand, he felt Annabeth relax, until she nearly dropped out of her perfect posture. 

Though he had lost track of the days long ago, he knew that this was the most time he had spent with her since their childhood adventures searching for the fleece of Colchis. During that time, they had found themselves at the mercy of one of several monsters, the beguiling island of the Sirens. Annabeth, in a fit of curiosity worthy of her bloodline, wished to hear the voices of the Sirens for herself, as the great Odysseus once had. Though Percy had bound her to the mast as she had requested, he had foolishly forgotten to relieve her of her knife--the same blade which she had given him just now--and she had escaped her bonds, and would have nearly died upon the rocks, had Percy not leapt in after her, taking her with him underneath the water where the Sirens’ cries could not reach her. In that dark and sacred space, a pocket of air at the bottom of the sea, she had wept in his arms, tormented by a vision of utopia, a piece of which he had mistakenly seen for himself. 

They had been so young, then. So young, their friendship so fresh, and yet she still had trusted him with that knowledge. She had trusted him again, during the siege, and now, beside the ever violent rapid, which roared in the distance, churning angrily, yet unable to penetrate the quiet which surrounded them now.

Her plait finished, he ran a hand down the length of it, long and beautiful, and said a silent farewell. “I will cut it now,” he told her, and he felt her nod. 

Hesitating for a single heartbeat, he brought the flat of the blade to her ear, and she flinched.

Cutting her hair was not as simple a task as he had imagined it to be. Even the cleaner sections were thick, the knife blade simply not sharp enough to slice through them so easily. It took a little bit of work in the arm, the cut on his bicep aching a bit as he sawed through her locks. There was no sound now, save for their mingled breaths, and the near-silent _shick_ of the knife as it met resistance.

Before either of them had realized it, Percy had reached the other side. Her braid hung on by a handful of threads. “Nearly there,” he said. She nodded, ever so faintly. 

And like that, it was gone. With a final cut, he severed the last few strands, and the thing came off in its entirety, that golden rope so heavy in his hand. “There,” he said, sorrowful in a manner he could not quite name. “It is finished.”

She lifted a hand to her head, running her fingers through the newly shorn locks. “It feels so light,” she wondered at it, her fingertips dancing around the base of her skull, searching for something long gone. “As though the burden of the sky has been lifted from my shoulders once more.”

He huffed a laugh. “Surely it could not have been that irritating,” he said. It had been too beautiful for it to be such trouble for her. And she had kept it long the entire time he’d known her.

Then she turned. 

_Oh, no_ , he thought. 

“Well?” she asked, suddenly quite shy. Her hand still rested on top of her head, her eyes full of trepidation. “Am I sufficiently boyish?”

“You…” he licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “You…”

If he had thought she was beautiful before with her gorgeous hair, he was utterly unprepared for how _adorable_ she was without it. 

Her curls now fell just beneath her eyes, the gold highlighting the silver. Her eyes, seemingly larger than they used to be, now gazed at him free of impediment, from a face entirely unobstructed and free. Without the curtain of her hair, she did seem to stand straighter, the light catching on her high cheekbones and the sweet slope of her nose. 

It took a moment to realize that he was staring. “Well,” he said, flushing, “you look… um…” 

Before his passing, Carlo had attempted to instruct him in the ways of wooing women. Now that he recalled it, actually, the man did seem to put a strange emphasis on speaking to children of Athena. In any case, one of his chief lessons was thus, that there was a fine line to tread when speaking to a woman about her beauty. One could neither flatter too much nor too little, for both were false claims, and women preferred it when men spoke plainly. 

But how could he tell her that she shone even more brightly in his eyes now than she ever had before? How could he be honest with her when her stated goal was to shun feminine beauty, and pass undetected beneath the cruel man’s gaze?

“I am… not certain you could pass as a man,” he said, carefully, “though, perhaps, you could be seen as a particularly delicate one.”

Were she a boy, he wished to say, then she would be the loveliest boy that Percy had seen in his entire life, even more beautiful than Adonis, Narcissus, or Ganymede. He thought back to two of the mortal men whom he had greatly admired, Lukas and Iason, both handsome blond men, and surmised, with a slight air of hysteria, that Annabeth made for an even more handsome man than either of them.

At that, she scowled. “It will have to do,” she growled, stalking back over to the dead man. “Go and gather what is left of our supplies.”

Immediately, he protested. “And leave you here? There could be more bandits around.”

She glared at him, so fierce and full of fury that he physically retreated. “I will be taking this man’s shirt,” she snapped, “and I would prefer to do so without any company.”

Oh. “Ah--of course,” he said, backing up even further and tripping over a dead branch. “I will… leave you to it.” Then, red-faced, he turned on his heel, and ran back to the _Empress._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you simp too hard
> 
> glossary:  
> • what happened to percy? they crossed an invisible border from the "ancient lands" (i.e., how far north the classical greeks had settled) to the lands of the nomadic slav tribes. annabeth feels it less bc she is from sweden  
> • the water spirits are rusalky  
> • "thalassinos", "svear" mean "of the sea" and "swede," respectively  
> • "gunai", greek for "wife"  
> • "patzinak", greek name for the pecheneg tribe, which used to ambush ppl trying to cross the rapids. at this time, the pechenegs either died out or had been absorbed by other turkic tribes, but annabeth doesn't know that lol, all she knows is what her dad told her about the dangers of taking the dnieper  
> • carlo is charlie beckendorf uwu


	7. Chapter 7

A rare show of contrition, Annabeth conceded that she had been wrong. There were not, in fact, seven rapids to traverse; in total, there had been nine. Unfortunately, Percy could not enjoy this little victory nearly as much as he wished.

Annabeth had been clearly rattled by their encounter several days prior. Once more she retreated into muteness, passing the time by fingering the edges of her shorn hair, a permanent frown delicately carved into her face. He did not like to take pleasure at others’ pain, but he knew that, short of either producing a sign from her mother or tripping and falling into the river, there was not much he could do to make her smile. Hopefully, a real bed on which to sleep in a real inn with an actual roof over their heads would lift her spirits somewhat. 

They sailed into a thriving river port city which Annabeth had called _Kiova_. He rolled the word over and over again in his mouth, wrapping his tongue around the odd sounds. It was a slippery sort of word, he thought, softly repeating it to himself under his breath as though it would fall from his lips entirely if he did not keep it close.

To his great dismay, it seemed as though the people of this city did not speak Italian. Nor did they appear to speak Greek, nor Latin, nor any other language with which Percy was familiar. Though she would not show it, it was plain to anyone who knew her to see that Annabeth was struggling as well. Her conversation with the innkeeper was slow and awkward, stilted, involving a great deal many strange gestures and repeated phrases in both Greek and another several languages he did not comprehend, which clearly made sense neither to Annabeth nor her conversation partner, and Percy was afraid the whole thing would collapse until a bystander, apparently moved to pity, was able to cobble together their shared knowledge of languages in order to rent Percy and Annabeth a room for the night. 

She thanked the stranger profusely for his assistance, and he smiled at them, his blue eyes sparkling, something familiar in the curve of his lip. 

“It was no trouble,” he said to her, the words colored by his thick, dark voice. “You and your husband--take care.”

He wanted to correct the man. But if he and Annabeth were to share a room, then it would be better for her reputation for her to be a married woman. 

When they entered their room, a small, cramped thing with a single lit candle, fairly decent for the amount of money they still possessed, which was not much, she collapsed on their one bed, quite exhausted. “How mortifying,” she groaned, her voice muffled by the thin pillow. “It was like I had forgotten every bit of language I had ever learned. And when he called you my husband!” She huffed, turning over. “It appears as though you were correct; even without my hair, I will never pass for a man. Then what, I ask, was the point of its removal?”

Percy did not say much, distracted by the single bed. He stared at it, equal parts anxious and excited, which was rather silly of him--he had slept close to her several times before, had shared sleeping quarters with her plenty of times, and all of them strictly platonic. Why should this time be any different?

And yet, it was, for reasons he could not name. Perhaps the bed was smaller, and they were so much older. Perhaps it was those terrible, wonderful dreams which plagued him every night, dreams of soft fabrics and softer skin. Perhaps it was just his foolish heart, awakened once more by love.

At his silence, she continued. “Well, it is no matter. It is gone, and I am glad to be rid of it, truly.” 

Still, he said nothing.

Perturbed, she looked at him, sitting up on the bed. “What is it? Is something wrong? Is there a monster nearby?”

“No,” he said, quickly, to dissuade her from any fears. “No, nothing of the sort.”

She gazed at him, a queer look in her eye. “What do you think?”

“Of what?” He asked, cautious.

“Of your handiwork.” With a shake of her head, she disturbed her golden crown, some curls falling down her forehead, framing her large, large eyes. “You are not usually one to hide your thoughts, therefore--please, share.”

“Oh.” He was quite certain she would not want to hear his thoughts, yet he sensed that continued silence would be the wrong choice. “You look… well, you look very… comely.” he offered, eyes tracing the line of her neck, and the curves of her ears, so sweet, that had previously been hidden from his gaze. Had he been a more poetic man, he would have the compulsion to dedicate several sonnets to those ears. 

Whatever answer she was seeking, it was clear that Percy did not provide. 

She scowled, her lips pursed. 

“I--”

“Well, _I_ happen to find it very freeing,” she said. She reached up and felt at the ends, for the hundredth time in the last few days, her lips tightening, as though she were unhappy with what she found. “Without all of my hair, I feel as though I could outrace even Atalanta herself.”

Then, she did something he did not expect; she shivered.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Of course,” she sniffed. “I just--I had forgotten--it has been so long since I cut my hair, that I did not realize.”

“Realize what?” 

Her fingers once again reached up to play with her short curls--then, midway through her gesture, she caught herself, and brought her hand down again, faintly embarrassed. “Well,” she said, almost shyly, “it can be… quite cold, without so much hair.”

“Indeed?” That was never something he had considered before. Of course, he had spent the vast majority of his life in the warm embrace of the Aegean Sea, where the cold was largely something of a far off myth. 

She nodded, drawing her thin shawl tighter around herself. “I will grow used to it with time, I had merely… I had forgotten.”

Though she had not asked him for anything, he made to take the blanket on the bed and hand it to her first, before he remembered. “One moment,” he said, crossing to the corner where he had placed their dwindling amount of supplies, crouching down to rummage through them. 

He could not believe he had forgotten this. 

Well, on the one hand, he could. It had to have been several months since that day in Athens, since they had ended their little feud. He had seen so much more of the world since then, had traversed farther than anyone he had ever known, save for her.

The color was still as lovely as he remembered, the cool, deep blue of a starless sky. He held the parcel out for her to see, felt the smooth threads between his fingers, spun in a tight, graceful weave. “Here,” he said, pulling out his prize. “This is for you.”

In his search, he had not noticed how she came to stand behind him, peeking over his shoulder, so he was quite surprised when he turned to see her looming over him. 

She stared at him, wide-eyed, grey eyes turning silver. Her brows rose up to a point, almost joining together at the wrinkle of her forehead, lips parted in a prolonged, silent gasp. He might have thought she had been turned to stone, were it not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. “This…” she faltered, licking her lips. “For me?”

He nodded.

“How…? When?” she asked, shocked beyond all language.

It appeared he had accomplished yet another feat worthy of the greatest epics; he had rendered Annabeth Fredriksdotter speechless.

Flushing further, he stood. “In Athens,” he admitted. “I--well, I was walking round the old _agora_ , and I saw it, and I thought to myself, well, I imagined that this color would look rather fetching on you, and I had some money to myself, so I… purchased it. For you,” he finished, lamely.

He had nearly forgotten how enthralling it was to be so close to her, to see her stormcloud eyes as they reflected the candlelight, to see every strand of the soft gold of her hair as it ringed her face. He wondered if she should hear how quickly his heart was beating, as it strained to free itself from the confines of his chest and place itself in her hands. 

It was like they existed in a glass bubble, a whole world unto themselves, so beautiful. So fragile.

“May I?” she asked, no louder than a puff of wind, and he nodded.

Taking it from his hands, she rubbed her fingers against the thread grain, her eyes taking on that familiar calculating expression. “It is very well-made,” she murmured, rolling it out to its fullest extent.

“I’m told it was for a noble lady,” said Percy, possessed of a sudden coyness he did not know he had. “I received it for a good price, but I had thought it should go to the kind of client for whom it was intended.”

The look she cast him nearly made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out. 

Still, she drew it around herself, layering it round her neck and her head, and Percy barely had the time to imagine his hands in its place, before he was struck by the full, glorious image which presented itself to him. 

He had been correct in his assumptions; the dark blue fabric looked lovely against her tan skin, but her short curls ringed her face in a halo, like the mosaics of the lords and ladies of St. Sophia, like the depictions of the holiest men and women on the walls of every church.

Percy had never considered himself to be a religious man. He performed the sacred rites and made his offerings to his father and his extended family, but not out of any true sense of theological devotion, and certainly not with the same passion as the Christians or the Ottomans whom he had seen. He did not throw himself to his knees at the thunder and lightning, nor the many miracles he had witnessed in his time, for he had come face to face with the king of the heavens, and had, sadly, found him wanting. He had met and known the gods and goddesses of earth, sea, and sky, and had discovered that they, too, were plagued by the million petty disagreements of mortal living. In some ways, it was a comfort, to know that even those who were all-powerful could be laid low by the simplest of deceptions, that they required great heroes as much as the heroes required them--and perhaps even more. Yet, of course, in other ways, it was quite the disappointment. After the war, after Lukas, after all that he had suffered, it had been difficult not to look at his fellow soldiers, at their prayer ropes and golden images and holy words, without mild distaste.

Looking at Annabeth, though, at the halo of her hair and the dark blue of her shawl, her large eyes, her lips so close, the heat of her body against him… well. Looking at her now, he thought he could teach them a thing or two about devotion. 

She felt even closer than before, somehow. Perhaps he had moved towards her. Or perhaps she had. Between them, Thalia’s lightning.

She had kissed him once before, many many years ago, caught in the grip of a volcano, and he would be lying if he claimed he had not thought of it often since then.

Then, she leaned back. 

“It seems my siblings were wrong about you,” she teased, her voice half-strained. 

“How… how do you mean?” he asked. His head felt as though it were full of air, soft and hazy. 

“They all swore up and down that you could never be so thoughtful.” Then she smiled at him, so sweetly, gazing up at him from beneath her honey-colored lashes. “Thank you, Percy.”

His mouth curved upwards in a smile, though he did not think to do so himself. “It was no trouble,” he said, wobbly and weak. 

The glass had broken. The moment had passed.

Without further discussion, they prepared themselves for bed. Extinguishing the solitary candle, he laid himself down beside her. The bed was too small for them to be at a respectable distance, unfortunately, and he hoped she would forgive him. 

Their room had one small window, shuttered close. Not even a hint of moonlight penetrated the slatted wood. Through the door, he could faintly hear the sounds of the tavern under them, a cascade of footsteps here, a sudden bark of laughter there, the whole of this strange, strange world beneath their feet. Eyes opened, eyes closed, it made no difference. Were it not for the noises of the people below, he would have thought they could be under the very earth itself, once again descending into the darkness of the underworld. 

All of twelve years old and sent on a fool’s errand to retrieve Zeus’ weapon, contending with the notion that he might not return, that he might fail and bring war upon the world, that his mother would be lost to him forever, he had braved the halls of Hades with this woman at his side, just as afraid as he. 

In the darkness now, as he drifted off to sleep, he nearly jumped back to wakefulness at the brush of her hand against his. He turned his head to her, but he could not make out her features, could not see her eyes to determine if it was conscious or not, if she had reached for him for comfort or if her hand had simply moved of its own accord. 

On their first quest together, in the land of the dead, she had slipped her hand into his, desperate for a friendly touch, for assurance that there was someone else alive with her. Swallowing, closing his eyes against the blackness, he laced his fingers with hers, squeezing. _I am here_ , he thought, sending it to her through the pulse of his hand. _I am here_.

After a moment, she squeezed back. 

***

Percy was tired. 

No, that did not entirely sum up precisely how tired he felt. Percy was exhausted. He was so exhausted, it was as if he had participated in a week’s worth of war games without any rest. His body ached as though Thalia or Iason had struck him with lightning, a constant, thrumming pulse of pain throughout his whole body. He felt as though he had been emptied of his vital insides, hollowed out and replaced with naught but a deep, deep fatigue. 

It was, he knew, due to the endless days of sailing they had undertaken. 

He did draw his power from the water, this was true. However, they must have been sailing for at least several months by now, day after day after day, Percy commanding the _Empress_ through the tides, headed against the current, traveling ever North on the windiest road known to mankind. So far from the ocean, not even the _Danapris_ could sustain him for as long as they had been traveling, and he could tell that his strength was wearing thin. 

And it was not just him. The _Empress_ wobbled beneath his feet, her hastily made bark splitting along the seams. If they did not stop for a rest, and soon, it was very likely that their canoe would capsize, taking both Percy and Annabeth with her. 

Thankfully, Annabeth seemed to understand his exhaustion without him having to explain. “Just a little further,” she assured him. “ _Miliniska_ is close--not more than a mile or so.”

Percy could not even reply, so depleted he was. 

It certainly did not help that a storm was about to roll in.

The clouds above were black, heavy with rain, the wind buffeting their poor little canoe, tossing it this way and that. The sail was nearly useless at this juncture, Annabeth’s stitches slowly unraveling, the fabric whipping in the growing gale.

Though the river flowed wide and steady, Percy felt as if they were sailing through a lake of mud, a thick, sticky marsh which impeded their progress to the point of death. His eyes burned, the harsh wind stinging; his spine could no longer hold his weight; he panted, open-mouthed, like a dog in the height of summer. 

Perhaps he would break alongside his boat. He would not mind so much. Even a week spent unconscious at the bottom of this foreign body of water would most likely do him some good. 

But he could not do that to Annabeth. She had trusted him with her safe return, and by all the gods he no longer knew, he would see her home.

 _“Che cazzo,_ how much further?” he asked through gritted teeth, letting slip a sailor's curse. 

“Not long,” she assured him. “Just a little more.”

“Is it possible,” he gasped, “you could be a little more specific?” 

The _Empress_ rocked from side to side.

“Percy!” called Annabeth, grasping the sides of the boat. 

“I know!” he shouted back. He squeezed his eyes, poured all of his thought into keeping them afloat. 

The waves themselves seemed to fight him, the water striking the sides with such force as to send Annabeth careening from one edge to another. 

He could not hold it for much longer. 

“Percy!” Annabeth shouted over the roar of waves. “Port bank!”

The ship turned sharply. With a yell, he shot his hands out, splitting the water before them, steering the _Empress_ towards the shore like a shot out of a cannon. 

It wasn’t enough. 

The canoe tore wildly beneath them, the seam of the tree coming apart with an almighty crack. As he had done in Constantinople, he summoned a great wave from the depths of the river, wrapping it around Annabeth, and hurling her the rest of the way to the river’s edge, onto the sandy shore. 

Then the _Empress_ split apart under his feet, dropping Percy into the water. 

So drained he was, he could not even enjoy it. 

He was in no danger of drowning, of course, but he was in danger of losing all consciousness, a terrible idea even when one was not in the middle of an unfamiliar territory. Who knew what sort of spirits lurked in this river, so far from the ancient sea? The water nymphs of the rapids had recognized him for what he was and had made no attempt to hide their distaste; he did not wish to try himself against further unknowns. 

If he did not make it to shore, he would not die, no, but only the Fates knew where he might wash up, and he would be lost. He would be lost, and Annabeth would be alone. 

Summoning the last of his strength, the blackness of exhaustion flickering at the corners of his vision like smoke, he reached deep within the core of himself, to that place that pulsed with the pull of the tides, that place which shook apart the very stones. With the last of his muster, the son of the sea god, the former Praetor of the Twelfth Legion, the lost little _Hellenos_ issued but one command to the northern river: _Take me to shore_.

Then nothing. 

***

When he woke, there was solid ground beneath his back. 

The sky had cleared, the stormcloud grey giving way to a fiery sunset, a smooth, slow gradient of orange and purple and blue. No longer was the air thick with the scent of rain, but now cleaner, and bright. 

And, he realized with a jolt, he was _starving_.

He groaned, a purposeless noise, yet it would prove to be a useful one all the same. 

“Percy!” cried a voice to his right. 

A form scuttled over to him, crowding his vision, and he had to blink through the fog of his eyes to realize that it was Annabeth. Her hands patted him up and down, from forehead to neck to chest, and she was babbling a mile a minute, far too quickly for Percy to comprehend. “Oh, thank goodness, you’re awake, I knew that you were not capable of drowning, but you have been asleep for so long, and I was so worried--”

“Ungh,” he said, most intelligently. 

Annabeth hauled him up from the ground, her strong hands clutching at his shoulders, crushing him to her chest. He felt her hitched sob against him, then, just as he was thinking to bring his arms around her, she pulled back, and did something very, very strange. 

She kissed him. Chastely, just a press of her lips to his, but desperate, her fingers still digging into the meat of his shoulders. 

Had he been more awake, he would have opened his mouth to her in turn. As he was now, he could not even pull forth the strength to deepen the kiss, or even to react to it in a positive manner.

Then, her eyes widening, she dropped him back onto the ground.

“Oh, forgive me!” she cried at his sudden grunt of pain.

“Guh,” was his eloquent response. 

“I--I am sorry, I did not--I would never--”

“Urgh,” he said, his lips tingling, the phantom feeling of her mouth on his potent enough to draw him the rest of the way from his unwilling slumber. 

There must have been water lodged in his ears. Or he was still sleeping. Or perhaps his brains really had turned to seaweed. Because there was no way, no possible way, that that had just happened. She did not just kiss him. No. 

He tried to sit up, only for his head to spin in a sudden vertigo. Curling onto his side, he shut his eyes until the sky above him stopped swirling in such nauseating patterns. “Easy,” said Annabeth, calmly, with the air of someone who has done this many times before. “Do not strain yourself.”

Hissing in effort, for his muscles still felt stretched and thin, far too overworked and overused not to ache, he sat up, raising himself on unsteady arms. “Are you alright?” he asked, casting a quick look up and down her person for any injury. 

A respectful distance away, she blinked at him. “You have been asleep for near on a day, and you are concerned for me?”

He--he must have imagined it, the kiss. She did not look on him any differently than she had before. She did not linger at his side, forlorn and desperate. She did not shed any tears for his safe return. So he had to come to the conclusion that he had almost certainly fashioned the whole incident in his memory from thin air.

Then, of course, Percy replied to her question without considering the ramifications of his words. “Yes.”

She was silent for a moment, then shook her head. “Ridiculous,” she said. “Truly ridiculous. Come, _phykios_. I’ve got a fire going.”

With all her considerable strength, she was able to half-carry, half-drag him closer to her campsite. “You say,” he grunted, doing his best not to wince with each step, “that I have been asleep for a day?”

“Nearly two.” 

She deposited him near the small fire, and he shivered as the warmth washed over him, enveloping him in its comforting embrace. It was a meager display, her rumpled bag of supplies propped up against a rock, a few thin, little fish, blackened by smoke and ash resting on a flat stone by the fire. “I apologize,” he said, bringing his arms around himself, rubbing the feeling back into them. “I did not mean to tire myself out so.”

“ _You_ apologi--” Cutting herself off, she stalked to the other side of the fire, angrily stoking it with a stray branch. “ _You_ apologize, when _I_ am the one who forced you to sail every day, nonstop for over two months, dragging you all over the world on a handful of hazy memories of a road long which has since fallen out of use--” 

“Annabeth--” 

“You have _no_ reason to apologize, Percy. None at all.” She stood behind the flames, the blue shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “It is I who must seek forgiveness from you.”

“I do not require--”

“I know that you cannot drown,” she said, watching the smoke rise, “but I--I knew that the road would be long and hard, and still I pushed you, day after day, watching you wear yourself thin on the river, and when you would not awaken, I was afraid that… that I had forced you to give too much.” Taking a shuddering breath, she threw in a bit of fish to the fire. He thought he saw the flames leap a little higher--though his vision was still a little fuzzy, and he may very well have imagined it. “I apologize, Percy. My pride had taken precedence over your health, and in return, you nearly died for my sake. If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me,” her eyes squeezed shut and she turned her face away, “of course I will understand.”

“Of course I forgive you,” said Percy, without hesitation. “There is naught to forgive, Annabeth.”

“You could have _died_.”

“A little exhaustion is not enough to rid you of me.”

“Percy--”

“Enough,” he said. “You have done nothing which requires any absolution. I promise.”

When she finally turned back, there were tear tracks, clear as day, streaking down the grime of her beautiful face, and he just barely held himself back from confessing that to die for her sake would be the easiest thing in the world for him to do.

“I swore that I would see you safely home, and I shall. Though perhaps I should be insulted,” he teased, “that you think so lowly of me. A mere river, overcome the son of Poseidon? Come now, _skjaldmær_. You of all people should know better.” This line of banter, how familiar it was to them. His head still spun from earlier, and he longed for the solid ground of their partnership to steady him. 

But she would not rise to such taunts, not this time. “I would rather that you stay by my side and we never make it home,” she said, so serious, “than return to my father without you.”

Oh, how her curls moved in the evening breeze, the golden-copper shine of her hair stark against the encroaching night sky, her mouth set in a stern line, the delightful little divot on her forehead when she frowned a whorl of shadow against her skin. He loved all Annabeths equally, but this one, who so casually and easily spoke truth from her heart, he liked this one very much. 

“Where are we?” he asked, rather than pursue that line of thought any further. “You said we were approaching Mil--Milani--”

“ _Miliniska_ ,” she said. “And we are not far; a few hours’ walk at most, by my calculation.” Though she did not seem pleased at this assessment.

“What is it?”

Lips pursed, she sat down heavily upon the stone. He could not see through the smoke, but he imagined her playing with the edges of her blue shawl, the way she did when she was anxious. “I… I am unsure of our next steps.”

“We continue along the river, do we not?” 

“I had thought so, yes.”

“Then once we have reached the city of--of--” he cursed as his tongue tripped over the strange sounds, his mouth not at all fit for this slippery, slick language of the North, “ _Holmgar_ _ð_ _r_ , then we turn West to Svealand. Is this not the way?”

“Well, yes,” she said, “but I do not--I mean, I am uncertain--oh!” She raked her hands over her head, mussing up her wild hair even further. “I do not know where to go from here.”

He frowned. Her words made no sense to him. “But you know everything.” This was no mere romantic declaration; it was a truth that he had carried ever since he was twelve years old. No matter what questions he had about this strange, strange world, Annabeth would have the answer, or she would be able to seek out the answer, precisely because she was Annabeth, and because she did, indeed, know everything there was to be known.

She turned red beneath the dirt on her face. “Would that were true, then perhaps I would not have led us here.”

“How do you mean?” he asked, a cold, sinking pit in his stomach, despite the warmth of the fire.

Sighing, she slumped even further, the point of her chin nearly level with the flames. “There are many river-roads here,” she said, haltingly, though the flood of words could not be stopped, “and--and they get all jumbled up, in my head, you see. When I--when I ran away, my plan was to trace the _Dúna_ to--to--” she screwed up her face, stamping her foot in frustration. “Oh, even now I cannot remember the name in Greek! There are so many names, Percy, in Greek and Norse and this strange, strange language that I cannot speak, and Lukas was the one who spoke them all when I was little, and I fear that I will have brought us to ruin, for I cannot make sense of it all.” She gazed at him, her large eyes glistening once more with tears. “I know not where I am, and all my faculties have deserted me, and I have dragged you here with me, into the unknown, and now our ship is gone, and--and--”

Then she performed the action which Percy had come to fear most: she began to weep again. 

“Annabeth,” he said, as gently as he could, “you cannot blame yourself for what happened to the _Empress_. She would have given out eventually; it was merely our misfortune that it happened to be now.”

Still, her shoulders shook, her head dropped into her hands. 

“We can find our way North again,” he promised. “We still have the stars, do we not? And surely we can craft another vessel.” Though it would take them much, much longer, as they no longer had any of the tools which they had left behind at Sigeion. 

She did not respond. 

“Annabeth, please.” He was not above begging or pleading, if only she would cease her weeping, if only she would smile again. “Please, it will be all right. Annabeth, my lo--”

Percy very nearly slapped a hand over his mouth, for he had almost let slip a sweet little endearment from his lips. However upset she was now, she would certainly not appreciate a declaration of romantic affection at this moment. She was in no position to accept it, and he would not wish to take advantage of her emotional upheaval. 

“Oh, Annabeth,” he said, keeping a close watch on his words. “I do not blame you. I do not blame you one iota. Everything will be all right, I swear it.”

He could not reason with her to draw her out of her despair. All he could do now is wait for this to pass, and pass it would. 

And pass it did. 

Her sobs weakened, eventually, short, painful little things giving way to long stretches of quiet sniffles. Through the flames, he observed her shoulders still, the tension in her hands fading away, her whole form collapsing in on herself as all her sorrow deserted her. For some time, there was no sound but the crackle of flame, the gentle rush of the river, the whispering noises of nature which surrounded them, birds and insects and the breath of the land itself. What a boon, for Percy and Annabeth so exhausted, for there was nothing left but peace. Tranquility. Time for rest, healing, and safety, things the absence of which they had long since felt. 

“I apologize,” she said, after a while. Her voice was rough, as though she had swallowed a mouthful of earth. “That was… I did not expect that.” 

“Think nothing of it.” All warriors had limits, and all warriors had a point at which they could take no more. There was no shame to be felt in such a release.

Though as she continued to avoid his gaze, he wondered if perhaps she was not ashamed of the act of grief, but at the simple fact that he had been present to bear witness to it, that even though they had traveled together for so long, had endured so much together, there were still parts of her she did not feel comfortable baring to to him. The thought made him profoundly sad. He trusted her with his life--and he always had. At the close of the second Titanomachy, she had leapt in front of a poisoned blade which had been aiming straight for his unprotected flank; after such a debt owed to her, did she think he would still find any part of her shameful? 

Then, she surprised him yet again. It was starting to become a pattern, it seemed.

“I know you must be angry with me,” she said, her eyes hidden from view.

It was only with the greatest strength of will that he kept himself from bursting out laughing at the sheer absurdity of such a statement. Percy, angry with her? For showing emotion? “What ever for?”

“For getting us lost.”

“We are not lost,” he chided. “This nearby town, Mal--Miliano--”

“ _Miliniska_ ,” she said, a weak grin gracing her features. 

He shook his head. “Yes, that one, surely someone there will be able to point us in the right direction.” 

“And if there is not?”

“Then we put our teachings to use,” he said. “We have been trained for this, have we not?”

“For battle, yes. For wandering around the northern wilderness, less so.”

He waved a hand, carelessly. “I am certain some skills will overlap.”

But she would not stray from her course. “I had thought you would be displeased with me,” she said. “I know you were concerned about the _agoge_ , about your mother, but I convinced you to accompany me instead. Would you not rather be searching for her, instead?”

Annabeth knew firsthand how he adored his mother. Though clearly it had been the right decision, sending her away from Constantinople had been one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. Hardly a day went by when he did not think of his mortal family. To be parted from them in this manner, so precarious, was a kind of agony he had not known existed. And yet, he could not very well admit to Annabeth that he would rather be here, now could he? “Wherever she is, I know that my mother is safe.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I have faith.” His mother was a resourceful woman, always had been. She had survived for years under the thumb of her hateful first husband; to pack up, flee the city, and then begin anew with a man who truly loved her would be no large undertaking.

“I wish I could believe as you do,” said Annabeth, softly. 

Percy would never quite describe himself as a man of faith, but he had his moments. “It is not so difficult if you choose the right people to believe in.” A simple truth, yet Percy had been blessed with such wonderful people in his life, such ample resources. People like his mother and Paul, Chiron and their friends. People like Iason and the Legion. 

People like Annabeth.

“I suppose, then, I have a bad habit of choosing the wrong person.” Through the fire, her eyes turned dark, bitter, sad. “Everyone I have ever believed in--my father, Lukas, my mother--they have all of them left me behind.”

He wished he could refute her claim, but he found he could not. He had seen the temple of Athena, cannibalized for Christian men, and the court of Poseidon, a cold, dark ruin. 

Still. “Surely not everyone?” he asked. 

She lifted her gaze to him, locking eyes from across the blaze. “No,” she said, thoughtfully. “No, I suppose not. Not everyone.” Then she frowned, as though something had suddenly occurred to her. “You said… you named our ship the _Empress_?”

Oh. He had hoped she had not heard that part. Flushing lightly, he nodded. “I did.”

“I see.” And she blushed in return.

The moment felt big, somehow. Large, like a fork in the road, or the moment before sunrise, where the world held its breath and anything could happen. Endless possibility.

Perhaps now was the proper time. At such a declaration, had he the strength, he would have gone to her at once, taken her in his arms and demonstrated just how deeply his affections ran. 

Alas, he did not. 

He yawned, hugely.

She huffed a laugh. “You are still tired?” she asked. 

Nodding, he rubbed at an eye. “Though I do not see how. I feel as though I could sleep for yet another day.”

“Perhaps you should rest a while longer,” she said. 

Roughly scrubbing his hands over his face, he said, “No, no, we should not waste much more time, if we are now relegated to walking.”

“Tomorrow,” she insisted. “The hour is late.”

“I would like to sleep in a real bed for a change.”

“We do not have enough money to rent a room for the night.”

“Then I can pay in manual labor, or--”

So faint, he nearly missed it, the slight tickling in the corner of his mind. 

Noting his pause, Annabeth stood up, her hand automatically going for her weapon. “What is it?”

Slowly, he turned towards the woods which bordered the river. “I am not sure,” he said, slowly. “It… it sounds like…” 

It was not sound, not as men typically understood it. The voice did not travel through the air, into the ear. Rather, it seemed to emerge from within his mind, a thought that was not his own. The tone, the timbre, sincerity behind the words, it was all so familiar, so comforting. This voice belonged to a simple kind of creature, hardy and tough, and what was more, it belonged to a creature Percy knew. 

“It can’t be,” he said.

And yet, it was. 

From the forest emerged a horse, a beautiful, brown thing, who trotted over to them without hesitation. Bypassing Annabeth entirely, the horse came to a stop next to Percy, dipping her head--for she was a mare--and with a start, Percy realized that this was the very same horse which had carried them to the safety of Prosphorion Harbor, in the thick of smoke and battle.

“How are you here?” he breathed, one hand coming up to stroke her nose. 

“What?” asked Annabeth. “What is she saying?”

In astonishment and wonder, he could not help but smile. “She says she heard your call.”

“What call?” 

“And,” said Percy, turning to her, “she says she will take us wherever it is we need to go.”

Her eyes widened, mouth open in shock and delight. “Truly?” 

As if to answer Annabeth’s question, the horse nodded in assent. 

“Can she take us to the _Dúna_?”

He relayed the question to the horse, and then translated for Annabeth: “She does not know the name, but if you can direct her to the place, she would be more than happy to carry us there.”

“Oh, oh, magnificent!” Annabeth rushed over, throwing her arms around the horse’s neck. “Oh, you blessed animal!” 

The horse--whose previous rider, several months and hundreds of miles past had named her Theophanu, as she had told him--gave a short huff, pressing her head against Annabeth’s. 

“We haven’t a moment to lose,” said Annabeth, releasing Theophanu with a pat on her nose. “Let me grab the supplies; you can sleep on the way.”

He had thought to assist her in dismantling the camp, but, truth be told, he was simply too exhausted still, and the thought of sleep was a welcome one. Seated as he was, he felt himself swaying gently, a leaf caught in the wind, succumbing to large, painful yawns as often as his body could produce them. 

Theophanu swiveled her gaze to him, large and piercing, and asked him a question. 

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She asked again. 

His cheeks flushed. “Of course not.”

The horse looked at him, unconvinced.

“We are only traveling together for the time being,” he said, weakly. “She is not my w--”

“Did you say something?” asked Annabeth, turning towards him.

If possible, Percy flushed even further. “Ah, no! Nothing to report.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then shrugged.

Before he knew it, they were all packed up and ready to go, Theophanu loaded down with their meager supplies. “Here, Percy.” Annabeth came round to his side, taking his arm and slinging it over her shoulder, using his own body as leverage to lift him up from the rock where he had nearly made his bed again. “Allow me.”

Together, they clambered onto Theophanu’s back. Annabeth sat before him, clutching the makeshift reins she had cobbled together out of what remaining rope they had left. Overcome with fatigue, his head bent forward until it rested against her shoulder, his nose pressed into the joint of her neck, her short curls brushing against his skin. 

So tired was he, he could do barely more than mumble an apology into her shirt. 

“It is fine,” she assured him. “Here, put your hands round my waist so you do not fall off.”

Her skin was hot. Or perhaps he was merely cold. He could no longer tell. 

Drawing himself closer to her, he draped himself against her back, following her instruction. “Sleep, Percy,” he felt her murmur to him. “I’ve got you.”

Rocked by Theophanu’s gentle movements, the scent and feel of Annabeth all around him, there he fell asleep, a stray lock of her hair inching its way towards his mouth. 

When he awoke the next morning, he would swear it was the greatest night’s sleep he had had in quite some time.

***

The nearer to the city they were, the stronger Percy felt. 

Certainly, they were much too far from the port, but still Percy swore up and down that he could smell the sea. “I promise you, I _can_ smell it!” Cresting the little mound, he thrust his arms out to the sides, taking in a large, large sniff. “The smell of salt, of fish, wet wood and smoke--” he sighed, full of ardent passion. “ _Th_ _á_ _latta, th_ _á_ _latta_!”

“We still have quite a ways to go, _phykios_ ,” Annabeth grumbled, though he could see her fighting down a smile. “Are you certain what you smell is not your own most tender perfume?”

But her taunts could not bring down his mood on this day. After months of travel by river, from one end of the world to another, at last, at long last, they had returned to the sea. 

Annabeth had called this city _Riga_ , another strange word, but at least one that he could say without much trouble. They had let Theophanu free a few miles back, choosing to make their way into the city on foot, as Annabeth did not think they could bring her with them to Svealand, and she did not wish to sell their friend to some heartless man who might treat her poorly, despite the fact that Theophanu could, most likely, fetch them quite a handsome price. For services rendered, two weeks of her time and who knew how many miles, she deserved to be set free once more, to roam in peace and contentment, and thus, Percy had sent her off with the blessing of the little Horselord, as she had so fondly called him. 

But now, now--the sea was within his grasp once more. The city of Riga rose up in the distance, the castle towers dark against the late afternoon sky, like trees rising above the red slanted roofs. 

Even to his untrained eye, the difference in architecture was stark. The towers, thin and spindly and sharp, seemed to be reaching towards the heavens. The tallest had a cross placed on the very top of the spire, and Percy wondered how a man could even reach such heights so as to take care of it. Clearly this tower rested on top of a church, though it was the oddest church Percy had ever seen before. He supposed he had grown too used to the domes of St. Sophia and its ilk, yet to him it was still stranger than the church in Athens which had once been the mighty Parthenon. 

By the time they entered the city proper, the sun hung low in the sky, a slight chill in the air. Percy shivered beneath his cloak, marveling at everyone around him who seemed unaffected by the cold. “Nothing like an unseasonable bit of chill, no?” he asked, hoping to spark some conversation after such a long silence.

She raised a brow. “This is not cold.”

“Of course it is,” he scoffed. “It is barely mid-September. Surely the seasons have not yet changed.”

“Oh, Percy,” she said, almost pityingly. “We are in the North, now. To those that live here, the coldest nights of Sigeion would seem the height of the summer heat.”

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “It can be colder than this?”

With a sad, mockingly sorrowful shake of her head, she pressed on, leading them through the crowded docks. 

“Annabeth,” he near-pleaded, jogging lightly to keep apace. “Please. Tell me it does not grow colder than this, I beg of you.”

She put her hand out, stopping him in his tracks. “A moment.” 

They had come before a little cargo ship, her captain speaking at length with another man. Annabeth narrowed her eyes, her lips moving slightly as she whispered to herself in that expression Percy had come to recognize as the one she wore when she was concentrating very intensely on any given task, usually a war game strategy of some manner or other, before grabbing a hold of his hand, and dragging him with her as she stepped up to the captain, before engaging in a lively conversation with him.

A conversation that Percy could not follow, naturally. He could pick out a few words here and there, just by virtue of having known Annabeth for so long, things like “ _farbror_ ” and “ _pengar_ ” and “ _Grikkir,_ ” but they flew by so quickly, he could not be sure if he had truly heard them.

A far, far cry from the stilted, unsure exchange she had shared with the gentleman in _Kiova_ , Annabeth was well and truly in her element as she spoke with the captain. The words flew back and forth between them, faster than he thought would be possible with such a liquid, languid tongue. Occasionally, she would refer back towards Percy, and he would straighten his spine, lifting his chin in an attempt to look more dignified. There was not much he could do about the unfortunate length of his hair, nor the travel-worn state of his clothing, but he did his best to take on an air of importance, following Annabeth’s lead as she spoke, most haughtily. 

Yet the conversation dragged on. It was several minutes of increasingly heated exchange before Annabeth turned away from the captain, bristling with anger. “Percy,” she said, imperious, “do you think you can sail this vessel?” 

He flicked his eyes to the ship. It was small-ish, double-masted, well taken care of. “Most likely.”

“Very good.” She turned back to the captain, sneering, and said, “I trust you’ll help me steal it, then?”

Percy started. “Perhaps it would be best not to discuss this with him present?” It wasn’t that he was not agreeable to a little theft--quite the contrary, he would be happy to assist--but, well, the man was right in front of them.

But Annabeth just scoffed. “He does not speak our language; he cannot understand us.”

True to her word, the captain merely blinked at them, uncomprehending. 

Very well. “Your orders?”

“On my mark,” she said. Then, she turned back to the poor man whose livelihood they were about to overturn, and, quite theatrically, burst into tears--great, heavy, cacophonous wails, which drew the attention of every man who surrounded them. So pitiful were her sobs, the good men of the port stepped up to comfort her, to see if there was some boon they could give or act they could perform to ease her sorrow, and so taken were they with her, a feeling with which Percy could certainly empathize, that none noticed as Percy quietly backed away, slipping onto the docked ship.

***

It was very early in the morning, but Percy had not felt so awake in months. Even in such a foreign place as this, the sea filled him full of power, sharpening his senses and lifting his spirits. They were making excellent time, the breath of Notus firmly at their backs, propelling them ever northward, and Percy felt so fine, he could not help but sing. Now, if only it had not been so damned cold. “Hýdōr thélō genésthai, ópōs se chrō̂ta loúsō,” he hummed, a song for a young girl he had heard once upon a time, “ópōs, ópōs, ópōs se chrō̂ta loúsō.”

“I do not know this one,” Annabeth commented, her hands curled around the lip of the wood as she kept a lookout--for what, she would not say--but her face was not turned out to the sea, rather, she looked at him so curiously, her head tilted. “From the _Anacreontea_?”

Percy shrugged. “I know it not, but heard it from the docks in Constantinople.” A lesser known talent of his, he seemed to have a nearly limitless memory for sea songs. If it were able to be sung on the water, then Percy would remember it perfectly. He could sometimes forget the shade of his mother’s hair, but he could remember these silly little sea songs. “If it is not to your liking, I am certain I could find another. Or, I could cease entirely.”

“No, no, it is very sweet,” she said. “You can sing to your heart’s content.” Then she sighed, wistful. “My father tried to teach me sea songs, once.”

“Oh?” he asked, delicately. The subject of her family was a sensitive one, he knew, but he confessed a deep curiosity for the man who helped make her into who she was. “Songs for when you went a-pillaging the coasts of Gallia and Anglia?” 

Her pretty face twisted, the familiar frown she wore whenever she felt he was being particularly stupid. “You are aware that the age of the Vikings has long since passed, yes? Svealand is now as Christian as Constantinople. As it was,” she corrected.

Sensing that they were about to embark on a very sad road, he sought to change the subject before they did. “You mean to tell me,” he said, injecting as much of a teasing lilt as he dared, “you were not once the littlest of the shieldmaidens? You did not sleep on the longboats, with the dogs of war, ready and eager to fight?” He’d seen visions of Annabeth as a little girl, traveling the world with Thalia and Lukas, already such a fierce fighter, and though he knew what kind of pain she had borne, the picture in his head still made him smile, a pretty little girl with golden curls and a fierce gaze, brandishing a knife entirely too big for her. “

“How I wished I could,” she sighed again, near-dreamily, seeming as if she had been struck by Cupid’s arrow. “I used to dream of the great shieldmaidens of yore, of Freydís Eiríksdóttir and Brynhildr Buðladóttir, of fighting alongside them, but alas, it was not meant to be.” The smile slipped from her face, and she grew pensive once more. “My step-mother put a stop to those dreams once she deemed me to be too old to have them.” 

“She did not appreciate the honor of shieldmaidens, then?”

Annabeth snorted, entirely unladylike. “Certainly not. She sought to bleed that part of me fully, as leeches to a festering wound, until I was sufficiently empty to be made full of the Christian god. When I was little,” she said, staring out to sea, “she brought me with my brothers on a business trip of sorts. She told my father that she was taking us on a pilgrimage to the great churches of the continent, but when we sailed into Riga, she…” Trailing off, she tightened her hands on the wood of the ship, her gaze hardening. Percy adjusted his grip on the rope, easing them more into the direction of the wind. “She attempted to leave me there,” Annabeth said, each word as heavy as a stone, dropped into the great, black deep. “She thought to consign me to a convent.”

A convent? “Rachel studied at a convent for a time,” Percy said. From what she had told him, it had not seemed so terrible. “I, however, cannot possibly imagine you in such a place.”

“Neither can I--I never actually set foot in it.” A small smile graced her features, then, barely visible in the dim light. If he had not been so attuned to her every move and muscle, he would not have seen it for himself. “As soon as I realized what she had tried to do, I ran. I took off, following the length of the _Dúna_ for a fortnight, until I crashed right into Thalia and Lukas. And, well… you know the rest.” She looked at him, so fondly it made his heart skip a beat. 

“You--” he swallowed, his tongue numb, his mind somewhat in pieces. “I remember, after our quest for the Master Bolt, you mentioned you were going to write to your father?”

She looked away. “I did.” 

“And?” He prompted. “Did you ever receive a reply?”

“I did not.”

“Oh.” 

“Not, I think, for a lack of trying,” she conceded. “You know as well as I how difficult it can be to send a letter. You were very fortunate to have your mother so close by.”

“I was,” he said, for there was no reason to deny it. 

“But I suppose if you did not like your mother, that could have been a burden.”

Such a concept was unthinkable, truly. Percy paused for half a second, weighing his words, and then asked, “Would it have been a burden for you to be closer to your father?”

Pursing her lips, she blew out a hearty breath. “To tell you truthfully, I do not know. After… after our little adventure with Atlas, I should very much like to have gone home even for a short while, even just to tell him that I forgave him, and Mary, for all the perceived wrongs of my childhood. But, as you can see,” and she gestured South, “it would have taken far too long.”

She was not incorrect. War had been brewing, and they simply could not have spared their chief strategist for months on end. There had only been a handful of weeks in between that adventure and their journey into the depths of the Labyrinth; without Annabeth, he was certain that particular quest would have gone up in Greek fire. 

“Tell me about him,” he said. “Your father. You know so much of mine, and yet I know so little of yours.”

Another small smile lifted her features. “You have forgotten already what I have told you of him?”

“I know he is a scholar of some renown,” said Percy, “and that he must be a singularly clever man in order to attract your mother’s eye.”

“He is,” she nodded. “He is… was… very dedicated to his studies, something which I always admired about him. Unfortunately, it left him little time to tend to his family.”

“Hence how you found yourself in your stepmother’s care.”

“Yes.” She faltered, tapping her fingers on the wood. “I… I do not know if he knew of her plan to send me to the convent. If he approved of her plan.” Her shoulders hunched. “If it was his idea in the first place.”

Percy shook his head, letting go of his ropes, commanding them to stay their current course. He stepped up to her, boldly knocking his shoulder against hers, pleased when she did not stumble or crumble before him. “Now, that cannot be,” he said, “for no man, no matter how wedded to his letters he may be, could consider you to be anything but the finest of warriors. If your father is as clever as you claim, surely he could not have authorized such a mistake.”

She stretched her lips in an attempt to smile, but that was all she could muster at this time, it seemed.

The dawn had yet to break, yet Percy could make out every line and angle of her face, indelibly marked, as they were, in his mind and heart, bathed in some otherworldly light that turned her more radiant than any goddess he had ever romanced. 

He swallowed.

“I must confess,” he said, “something that has been weighing on me heavily.”

She turned to him, eyes wide and expectant. Her hair had grown out some since her unfortunate haircut, coming down to dust at the tops of her shoulders, nearly obscuring her gaze, and he had to grip the wood of the ship in order to keep himself from brushing it from her face.

“Why…” he trailed off, distracted by the flecks of silver in her eyes. By the gods, man, pull yourself together. “If you and your father did indeed have such a contentious relationship, why did you want to see him now?”

For a brief moment, he felt she looked… disappointed, almost. But it passed, more quickly than a thought, and he put it aside for the moment. “Despite it all, he is my father. My mother, the _agoge_ , Constantinople--they are all gone, yet still he remains. He may be the only thing I have left in this world,” she said, glumly.

Something in his heart tugged at her words. “Not the only thing, surely,” he jested lamely. “Have I not been sufficient company on this odyssey of ours?”

“You have been,” she said, looking him square in the face, “the greatest companion I could ever have asked for. As long as I live, I shall never forget the thousand kindnesses you have paid me over these last few months.”

She was so close. He could feel her breath, hot against the freezing air, see the upturned tip of her nose. “It was my pleasure,” he mumbled. 

There was no sound, save for the wind, the creak of the wood, the beating of his heart, so loudly he was certain she could hear it--or perhaps it was hers, throbbing in return. One, two, three heartbeats in succession, she twitched, he jolted, they moved imperceptibly closer, then--

Annabeth gasped. “Percy, look!” she cried, pulling back.

“Huh?” he blinked, lagging a few seconds behind. 

Her outstretched finger pointed upwards towards the heavens, but all he could see was the open, naked wonder on her face, her dropped jaw, her eyes as large as the extravagant pendants of rich nobles, the way her curls seemed to bounce of their volition, charged up in awe and in wonder. Only after he had taken his fill of her visage, a seemingly impossible feat, yet one he accomplished nonetheless, did he follow her finger to the object of her fascination.

And he gasped in turn.

High in the sky, ribbons of light and color swam about, mixing and mingling with the clouds and stars, as if Eos and Iris had joined forces, the rosy-fingered dawn and the golden-winged messenger entwined in a magical dance. “Oh,” he breathed, “oh, how beautiful!” 

“I can’t believe it!” she laughed, delighted. “The bridge! Percy, look! The--” Then she said a word which Percy must not have heard correctly.

“The what?”

And then she said that word again. 

He frowned. “Bee-vroast?”

“No, the _Bifröst_.”

“Is that not what I am saying?”

“Most certainly not,” she said. “It is the road between Heaven and Earth, connecting _Asgard_ to _Midgard_.” 

“Asgard?” he asked. “Midgard? What do these things mean?"

She gestured around them. “This. This is Midgard, everything you see before you, the land in the middle. Asgard sits up above us, at the top of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. It is a long, long way, passing through  _ Alfheim _ , and… well, regardless, it is quite the journey.

“I see,” said Percy. “Similar to how Olympus was perched on top of St. Sophia, yes?” 

Annabeth tilted her head, considering. “A little. Though, rather than a staircase or a mountaintop, there is a bridge.”

He looked back at the display--unfortunately, all he could see were hazy, formless colors, stunning, but about as solid as the mist itself, nothing nearly so weighty as a bridge, yet so sublime and unfathomable still. “A bridge?”

She pointed again, leaning in close, so as he could better see the angle of her finger. “There, do you not see the three colors?” 

He could, indeed, see three colors: hot reds, cool blues, otherworldly greens, like streams of pure light floating down from on high. “I do.”

“And there,” her face was nearly pressed to his, the heat of her body welcomed only in that it helped to ward off the cold somewhat, “see you not the point where it vanishes?”

He squinted. The lights seemed to disappear beyond the horizon line, trailing off above what surely must have been _Ultima Thule_. “I… I believe I do, yes.”

“There,” said Annabeth, her face all lit up, “there is the home of the gods of my father’s family: the _Aesir_.”

“ _Aesir_ ,” he repeated. _Aesir_ , _Asgard_ , _Midgard_ , so many strange sounds. “Well, then,” he said, taking a step back. “Shall I follow this _Bifröst_ of yours?”

How strange to think that, merely a few months earlier, they had set out from Piraeus, nearly antipodal to where they were now, surely. It seemed near a lifetime ago. Even now, he found that the streets of Constantinople had faded from his memory, somewhat, the towering churches and ancient squares no longer quite so towering in his mind. How he longed to return to that place, that time, before his gods had abandoned him, before his family had vanished into the air, before he realized that he was in love with a woman who despised him, and before he realized that, sooner than he would have liked, he was about to lose her forever. 

“Not quite so far,” said Annabeth, taking a step back in turn. “We go to seek my uncle, Randulf.”

“Not your father?” he asked, once more picking up the ropes which had not gone slack. 

She shook her head. “My father is but a scholar; on the contrary, my uncle is… well…” Flushing lightly, she bit her lip, looking away. “He is something of a local lord.”

“Really.”

She flushed further. “He does possess certain titles and lands.”

“You really are a princess,” Percy concluded, a smile growing on his face. “And all this time, I thought that you simply detested to be compared to the fairest of the fairer sex.”

Harrumphing, she crossed her arms. “I am _not_ a princess,” she pouted.

Holy Aphrodite, surely she must not have known the effect that she had on him. “Oh, of course,” said Percy, “I had forgotten. _Your majesty_.” 

“Enough.” But, as the lights of the _Bifröst_ gave way to the breaking dawn, he could see a smile on her face, as plain as day. “Be ready, captain, for there are many islands between here and Stadsholmen.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Percy!”

***

When she related to him the news, she seemed oddly calm regarding the situation. “It appears,” she had said, “that my uncle has since passed away.”

“My deepest sympathies.” Percy did not have much in the way of an extended mortal family--his mother had been a single child, and his step-father had not spoken much of his own family--but he could imagine the kind of loss she must have felt.

“It seems that his title and holdings were transferred to my cousin, Magnus.” She had had a sort of faraway look on her face, as though she were lost in some kind of waking dream. “He and my father have gone to Birka, to see to his properties.”

Goodness; they had docked the boat from the poor man whom they had thieved in Riga not just this morning, had barely been in Stadsholmen a day, and once again they were setting off. “How far?”

Blinking, she had seemed to physically pull herself together before his very eyes. “Not very,” she had said. “I can find us passage.”

Now they floated serenely on the waters of Lake _Mälaren_ , as she had called it, inching ever closer as the nice captain brought them to the island in the middle of the water. It felt odd not to be in control of the vessel for once, and Percy could not stop himself from fidgeting, his leg bouncing up and down incessantly. 

The captain shot him a dirty glare, and Percy looked away. “So,” he said to Annabeth, desperate for something to fill the weighty silence which had descended upon them. “Your cousin, Magnus--what is his character?”

“I wish I could say.” Staring straight ahead, Annabeth focused all her considerable attention on the island which was slowly coming into view, emerging from the mist. “I have not spoken with him since before I ran away.” 

“I see.” 

“I remember,” she said, softly, “that he loved nature. That when I told him of my plans, he did not go and report them to my father. In that way, I know that he was a stalwart friend, and I cannot imagine that much could have changed him.” Tossing him a glance, he thought he saw her lips turn imperceptibly downwards. “If he has not changed much, I daresay that you will quite enjoy his company.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked, awaiting further explanation, yet she did not provide any.

Before very long, they had arrived at the shores of Birka, and Annabeth had given the kind boatman the very last of their coin. They stood at the bottom of a little hill, the dirt path before them winding its way through the tall grass, like a snake, yet Annabeth made no move to go forward. 

“I cannot believe I am here,” she breathed. “It has been so long, I… I never thought I would see it again.” What ‘it’ could have been, she did not specify, though he could guess. 

Though the house on the hill was now within their grasp, he found that his feet seemed to be as heavy as hers. “Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow,” he said, “and find somewhere to rest for the night.”

But then he observed as Annabeth summoned all her courage, drawing herself up to her full height, squaring her shoulders and narrowing her eyes, a little goddess of war here on Earth, and began the long march up the hill. Percy was powerless to do naught but follow her. 

The house was built with dark wood, a deep, nutty brown, an inkblot against the soft blues and greens of the land which surrounded it. As they grew closer and closer, it seemed to multiply in size, as though stories and wings were added to the existing structure before his very eyes, an ever expanding sculpture of rough-hewn wood and grey, slanting roofs. 

As Annabeth stepped up to the great, wooden door, and knocked, Percy stepped back a ways. It would not do, he thought, for him to hover over her, not during such a precious moment of reunion. 

A handful of heartbeats, then the door opened, with a great, creaking groan. “ _Ja_?” asked the man who popped his head out, a mop of drab, grey hair on his head. “ _Vem är det?_ ”

“ _Jag heter Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter_ ,” Annabeth said, “ _och jag är här för att träffa min far, Fredrik Randulfsson._ ”

The man looked her up and down, before retreating into the darkness of the house. 

There, on the grass outside of the door, they waited.

Not a minute later, the door opened again, nearly coming off its hinges as another man barreled forth, his wild, grey hair shooting off in all directions, glasses perched delicately on his nose. “ _Anja_!” he gasped, as though he were in pain. “ _Anja, är det verkligen du?_ ”

Annabeth gave a single sob, then threw herself at the man, who wrapped her up in his arms, squeezing tightly. “ _Jag är hemma nu_ , papa,” she wept, muffled by his shirt. “ _Jag är hemma_.”

As one, they crashed to the earth, their knees striking the packed dirt, and despite the chill of the afternoon air, Percy could not help but feel warm at the sight of Annabeth--Anja--as she embraced her father for the first time in fifteen years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late! school is kicking my butt 😩 couple of stats for this chapter: five different languages, roughly 2000km traveled, three and a half months, over eleven thousand words, and three missed opportunities
> 
> glossary!  
> • Kiova: Kyiv  
> • Miliniska: Smolensk  
> • Holmgardr: Velikiy Novgorod  
> • Duna: the Daugava river  
> • "Thalatta, thalatta!": "the sea, the sea!", a cry shouted by the Greek army when they reached the Black Sea after a failed campaign against Persia  
> • annabeth is me whenever i talk to someone who lives south of new hampshire  
> • "farbor", "pengar", "Grikkir": uncle, money, Greek  
> • the song percy sings is lovingly lifted from ac odyssey (listen [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ypY4r27Iuk)) the text is from the Anacreontea, though, a collection of poems by Anacreon  
> • "Gallia and Anglia": France and England  
> • actually convents were pretty banging in the medieval period, it was one of the few places girls and women could receive real top quality education! now if only mrs. chase had told her that beforehand  
> • annabeth sees the bifrost, but the glamor is too strong for percy, and he just sees the northern lights  
> • Ultima Thule: a semi mystical island north of Britain, first mentioned by the explorer Pytheas  
> • Stadsholmen: Stockholm  
> • and here is where it gets obvious that i know comparatively nothing about medieval sweden  
> • annabeth's real name is anja elisabet and no i won't accept arguments at this time
> 
> my deepest, sincerest apologies to any swedish speakers in the audience for the use of google translate!!! and also for not knowing anything about your history!!! if you spot any glaring errors, PLEASE comment and let me know, i would be more than happy to get that fixed
> 
> for those interested, here is a very rough sketch of their journey so far. beginning on may 29th, from istanbul to birka, factoring in a quick trip to athens, rest days, and magic sailing travel time, all told would have taken roughly three and a half to four months, arriving in birka on september 21  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This spicey (🌶🌶🌶) chapter brought to you in part by Darkmagyk, please be sure to thank her and/or curse her name in the comments :3

Percy wakes to the feeling of a blonde curl in his mouth, and though the taste is unpleasant, he still smiles. 

Spitting it out of his mouth, he turns on his side to better face his wife, and grasps at her, but not before pausing to rub at her growing belly. "Good morning, my love," he says, voice still rough with sleep.

Softly, serenely, she flutters her eyes open, revealing the stunning stormcloud which he so adores. "Good morning, my husband," Annabeth replies, her returning smile, while small, still bright enough to light up the entire North on its own, the _Bifrost_ distilled in her joy. 

Though he has just woken up, he feels a bit restless, but the threat of the freezing air outside of the warm blankets stops him from rising from his bed. Additionally, Annabeth has slung her arm around his side and pulled him close, and he cannot bear to be parted from her. Oh, how he loves the feeling of his wife laying next to him. 

The blankets securely wrapped around him, he turns further into her, leaning over and kissing her, long and hard and deep as possible.

"Darling," she murmurs against his lips, "you know I am already with child, yes? You cannot make me pregnant again at the moment."

"Oh, I am aware," he says, caressing the swell of her stomach. "I can imagine a hundred reasons to kiss you," he kisses her lips, "to touch you," he traces the bones of her clavicle, enjoying as she shivers in response, "to make love to you, that have nothing to do with making children."

She giggles, a sweet, chiming bell, a sound which puts him in mind of the carefree girl she was never able to be, but one that he dreams they have created together.

Out of the warmth, he reaches up his hand, brushing her hair out of her face. Normally covered, as is appropriate of a woman wed, her hair lies wild against her pillow. He strokes the soft locks and imagines their child, their little girl, all blonde curls and brilliance. 

"What is on your mind, _phykios_?" Anja asks. 

"You," he says. "Our child. Our life. How happy I am, and how much I love you, how much I love this."

"Even in the frozen wasteland of Svealand?" she teases, her lips curling.

"Even here," he promises. "Anywhere you are, that is where I wish to be."

However, rather than reward him with another kiss, as is her wont, she frowns. "Do you smell that?"

"It is merely the fire," he comments, though when he casts a glance towards the hearth, he sees that it is cold and empty. How strange; typically one of the servants will come in and make it up each morning before they awake.

He strains his ears, attempting to catch the subtle sounds of the house as it wakes up around them. The floor creaks, the walls shift, and everything feels foggy, as though their bed has somehow sailed out into the morning sea. It all seems so close, closer than it should be, closed off in his own world with Anja.

And what is that blasted scratching?

He awoke with a start, sitting up just in time to see the blaze of the fire going up.

The maid, a woman a few years younger than him with bright, bright hair, jumped as he moved, startled. 

She murmured something that he did not quite understand, but recognized as an apology. "It is alright," he said as best he could manage, the syllables of Swedish not fitting so well inside of his mouth. Alejandra had laughed at his accent the other day, but at least she was kind enough to attempt to teach him some of this strange northern tongue so he could not be so abominably rude. Annabeth--Anja Elisab--whoever--had either been unable or unwilling to spare the time to assist him, and nor had her father. Alejandra was then the only other person in the manor with whom he shared a language. 

He had thought it to be a trio of Latin speakers; himself, Lord Magnus' wife Doña Alejandra, and her brother, the similarly named Don Alejandro, who had both studied Latin as youths, and if their Latin failed them, Spanish itself was not so different from Italian that the two could not understand each other when spoken slowly. Percy had been terribly embarrassed that it had taken him near on six weeks in the household to put together the fact that Alejandra and Alejandro were, in fact, the same person, a Norse demigod with shapeshifting powers that could rival even Franko's. As she had explained it to him, at times she lived as a woman, and at others he lived as a man, but still remained the same person within, and Magnus not only knew, but considered it no significant difficulty. For Percy, who had seen a cow with the tail of a fish, this was not so strange.

The maid scurried away, leaving the fire to try its best to warm the frigid room.

It was freezing. It was always freezing here.

Percy, a man of the warm middle sea, was decidedly not pleased by this constant chill.

His room was well appointed, the best guest room in the manor--a Swedish monarch, _Kristoffer av Bayern_ , himself had once slept here, as Fredrik had told him. A servant came in to tend the fire, another came in to clean. It was, short of a god's palace, perhaps the most luxurious place he had ever rested his head. Fredrik and Magnus graciously provided him with warm clothing, finer than anything he'd left behind in Constantinople. Despite the winter, food was plentiful, and he joined the noble family for every meal. 

One would argue that, as an honored guest in a noble household, his every comfort seen to, surely that would have made for a happier time than trekking through the Labyrinth, or facing a Cyclops, or holding the sky, no? And yet, he was not sure if he'd ever been more miserable in his life. 

He was cold and lonely and cold. He dressed as warmly as he could, in several more layers than anyone else, and still he shivered. Fredrik spoke Greek, but he had much to attend to around the manor, and spent the bulk of his free time reacquainting his daughter with the goings-on and politics of the North. 

At least Annabeth was settling in well. It was hard to deny how well she fit the bitter climate. She looked beautiful against the snow and the dark wood, wrapped in fine furs. Her cheeks flushed in the cold, her blonde curls sneaking out below caps and shawls, her pale skin glowing in the warm firelight, all lovely.

She no longer resembled the legendary Theotokos, but she seemed happier than she had been in months. 

Dressed in lovely garments, rich fabrics of green and red and blue, she walked through the halls of her family with her head held high, as though it were her very own palace. She was a noble lady, come home after a long, torturous absence. A princess. 

It suited her. 

Annabeth would have made a wonderful lady of the house--shoring up the family and all that. The marital politics of aristocrats somewhat escaped him, but it seemed the sort of thing that they would do, marrying your beautiful, intelligent cousin in order to keep your lands and titles more firmly within the family. 

He knew that Magnus loved his wife, and that marrying a foreign woman had caused some local controversy, even without the general knowledge of Alejandra's alternate days as Alejandro. She had told him herself, too, that just as Percy and Annabeth had gone on a great many adventures together, so had Magnus and his partner, along that rainbow bridge that Percy could only barely see. But when he saw the cousins together, so alike in their appearance, so clearly happy to be reunited, Percy could not help but wonder if Magnus regretted his marriage at all.

Percy almost felt guilty to think of it, and not only because Alejandra was his only true friend he had here. He would never dream of disrupting their marriage. But he did not know how anyone, presented with the missed opportunity of Annabeth, could not regret his choices. 

Lukas had died for that regret.

He wondered what his own regret would be, once he left this place, once he left Annabeth.

Shivering as he left his very comfortable bed, he decided to take one of the rugs with him, keeping it wrapped around him as he got dressed for the day as he did each day, feeling foolish with every layer he added. His daily routines were sparse, spending his days puttering round the manor, alternately avoiding and being avoided by the denizens of the house. He could not even go down to the lake and sit by the water, as it was simply far too cold. At the very least, none of the family had made a move to have him removed; on the contrary, he'd been informed that, in the winter, such a trip could prove to be fatal. But one day Spring would return, and he would not stay in the best guest bedroom of Annabeth's cousin's house forever.

He shuddered again as he stepped into the hall. _Malaka_ , but he hated it here. But Annabeth was here, and he found he did not wish to be anywhere else.

It had been well over two months by now, and Percy at least knew his way to the dining hall, where the mid-day meal was served each day. As he set off, he tried to time his shivers to only when he was alone, when no other member of the household, born and bred in this bitter, bitter cold, could judge the strange foreign man who had, perhaps, outstayed his welcome.

Annabeth and Magnus were already seated at the table when he arrived, and she cast him a smile as he entered and sat down beside her. He nodded, smiling in return, feeling warm from the inside out. 

Then the cousins resumed their conversation, which was quite beyond his comprehension.

Frowning, Percy took some salted fish onto his plate, and ate in silence, as he had no other option.

Alejandro arrived a few minutes after Percy, a man today, judging by his clothing and his own statement. At the very least, he had the good manners to speak to Percy over his bread.

"You are of the Eastern rites, yes?" he was saying. "Soon you shall experience a proper Catholic Christmas."

"It is much too early for Christmas, is it not?" Percy asked, frowning. Had he missed the turning of the year already? He had not thought he was so unaware of the passage of time that he had missed December entirely.

Annabeth and Magnus both frowned at them as though they spoke in secret code, as Annabeth's Latin was less than passable, and Magnus' nonexistent. Given that everyone around Percy was constantly speaking a tongue he could not understand, he did not find himself with much sympathy to spare.

"St. Lucy's feast is but three days away," Alejandra said, "and then the Christmas month shall begin."

At Percy's confused expression, he laughed; it was not exactly kind, but Percy had come to learn that the relentless teasing was how Alejandro demonstrated friendship.

He turned to Magnus, perhaps translating for his husband, and Annabeth responded in Swedish, her face contemplative. Then Alejandro said something presumably quite amusing, for they all burst into peals of laughter. Annabeth's laugh was musical, as always, bright and sparkling as a bell.

He wished he knew what the joke had been.

Shoving a slice of bread in his mouth, he prayed that it would hide the disappointment on his face from being cut out again.

"Anja," Alejandro explained, "had mentioned that the last time she had been present for St. Lucy's day, she had dressed up as the saint herself--I then volunteered to assume the role of a small, blonde girl, if no other one could be located in time."

Percy smiled, partly in thanks, but it was not the same. He had no idea what St. Lucy's day was supposed to involve, nor why Annabeth had costumed herself so, nor how it was somehow already time for Christmas--and he was not about to ask his present company.

After the meal, he and Alejandro went down to the manor's stables, as they often did. "You know," he said, as they walked across the frozen ground, "I have a half-brother who is a horse."

"I as well," Percy replied. "Two, actually, I believe."

Small talk for demigods was always something of a unique experience, and this cross-pantheon relation-building was particularly interesting. Loki could also cause earthquakes, as Percy discovered. He was glad he had found a kindred spirit, even all the way up here.

The horses were quite nice, but Percy was distracted somewhat by a group of young stable hands who simultaneously politely ignored them, while hanging on their every word and gesture from around the corners. 

"What game do you think they are playing?" asked Percy absently, though whether to the horses or to Alejandro, he was not sure.

"They are watching you, my friend," Alejandro said. "They are all desperate for a glimpse, for a juicy slice of gossip to share with their friends."

Percy made a face. "Whatever for? I am not that interesting."

Laughing, Alejandro clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, you've arrived from far away, and that is plenty interesting on its own. When I arrived with Magnus, I was stared at and gawked over for months, and no one believed I was the heir to a fallen empire."

It took Percy several moments to fully understand the extent of Alejandro's implication.

"Do people truly believe that I have some claim to the throne of Constantinople?" Such a fantasy was--laughable, at very best. "Everyone thinks so?"

"No, not everyone," Alejandro grinned. "I know perfectly well that, son of a god or not, the heir apparent of an empire could not have escaped half as well as you did." Then he paused, looking Percy up and down in a manner that felt not entirely unlike an appraisal. "But merely a minor prince, well..." Alejandro trailed off, raising an eyebrow in question.

Ruthlessly he quashed the bubbling, hysterical laughter that threatened its way up from his stomach. Someone as cunning and well-traveled as Alejandro, someone who'd spent so much time with him, thought him to be a _porphyrogenitus_? "That's ridiculous," he said, for it was one of the silliest things he had ever heard.

Alejandro's face fell. "No, do not say such things," he complained. "I so wanted to be right. Magnus had insisted you were merely a boring old nobleman, and I would hate to lose the bet."

Percy swallowed, suddenly overcome with anxiety over what Annabeth may have told her family about him. They knew he was a demigod of the Hellenes, of course, but perhaps she had obscured certain facts about his mortal life.

No, not perhaps. Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter, whose family had played host to the king of Sweden in their ancient manor, she could not imply that her traveling companion was only a fisherman turned foot soldier in a failed army. What might that say about her, or her reputation?

"Well, I would hate to cause marital strife by proving anyone correct," he said with a painful smile, holding his tongue. Surely, if Annabeth had chosen not to share such information, she had had a reason, and he would not make her out to be a liar, not to her own family. 

Eventually, he was able to get a straight answer regarding the Christmas season. The western Christians celebrated the birth of their god much, much earlier than those in the East, and in the cold, dark winters of Svealand, they had an additional holiday, that of the festival of light, held on December 13th, the Feast of St. Lucy that had been discussed earlier. 

Alejandra stood next to her husband, smiling wistfully at the stream of little girls who walked past, garlands and candles on their heads. Percy could imagine, in his mind's eye, a little Annabeth leading the procession, blonde curls and steel eyes, so smart, so determined to seek the life that she wanted for herself. One day, perhaps sooner rather than later, her own daughter might join in the parade--another little blonde girl. A perfect child.

And Percy wanted...

No. No, he would not think on that. Already he was a shameful secret of his hostess. What would she think of him, if she knew that he dreamt of fathering her children? He could not risk her ire; should she order him to leave, he had nowhere else to go.

The lights streamed on past him, and Percy wished desperately for spring.

Christmas proved to be unremarkable, though the illicit Yule, celebrated in highest secrecy by Annabeth's family, was far more intimate. This holiday honored Odin, a godly king of the same rank and power and a little of the same personality as Zeus, but who apparently got on considerably better with Magnus and Alejandra than the lord of Olympus had with any of his mortal nieces and nephews. 

He spent very little time with Annabeth these days, save for a few hours on the solstice, where they had sat together in an alcove, out of the way of the rest of the house, and did not discuss the winter council of the gods. 

Neither did Percy have much taste for a Saturnalia, after the war. 

Then the Epiphany was upon them, and the year had turned anew. 

Percy began to spend some serious thought to what he might do when the spring came, as it inevitably would, when he could leave this place without fear of freezing from too long spent out of doors. He hoped by then, he would have learned how to cope with the knowledge that, once he departed, he would never again see Annabeth. 

He had never broached the subject of payment for his services to her--he did not wish for a reward, as every moment by her side a gift. Keeping her safe had been an honor, not a chore. Yet he would need at least a little money to book passage on a ship, or to purchase a horse and some supplies. Perhaps he could speed up his departure by performing some manual labor for a local townsperson. 

Percy had just begun to muster the courage to bring it up to Alejandra, hoping that she would be able to provide him some direction, when he received a summons, not from Lord Magnus, but from his uncle.

Sir Fredrik had called him to his study to discuss something that evening, and Percy prayed that he did not look too nervous. Perhaps the rumors of his birth had reached the lord of the household, and they wished to discuss the business of transferring a power which Percy did not possess. Or perhaps the truth of the circumstances of his station had finally come out, and Lord Magnus had chosen to send him away from their home. He was not certain which he would have preferred.

“Ah, Percy, come in!” said Fredrik, ushering him into the room. “Do sit down. Something to drink?”

“Oh,” he said, sliding into the chair which had been positioned in front of Fredrik’s desk. “No, thank you.” But the man had already sent along orders with a servant. What bizarre concoction would it be this time, Percy wondered. The soup made from rose flowers? The thin, foul-smelling ale which tasted of rotten bread?

While Percy waited at Fredrik’s leisure, the man in question continued to putter about his office, shuffling papers and muttering to himself in Swedish. He waited for so long, he began to wonder if Fredrik had forgotten him entirely, until a manservant reentered with two steaming mugs of… something. Percy attempted to thank the man as he handed him his drink, only to receive a rather condescending look from the corner of the man’s eye. 

Cowed, he sipped his drink, preparing himself for the worst. 

Yet--oh, what a pleasant surprise! The drink was hot, but sweet, with a splash of spices and a softness which hid the bitterness of the alcohol that ran through it. The sharp smell reminded him of the trees which surrounded the manor, fruit on a cold winter’s morning.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but what is this beverage?”

“That, my boy, is a cider,” Fredrik replied, settling down at his desk. “I take it you prefer this to ale, yes?”

Indeed. Rather than answer, he took another deep, deep drink, letting it warm him all the way to the tips of his toes. 

“Now, then,” said Fredrik. “There are several things I wish to discuss with you.”

Percy straightened. “Yes, sir.”

Tapping his fingers against his desk, he peered at Percy over the rim of his glasses. “Over the past few months I have had the opportunity to observe you and your character, and you seem to me to be a good, upstanding young man. Now, I must be truthful; I recognize that we have perhaps, ahem, sped things up quite a bit more than one usually would in situations such as these, but as time is of the essence, I shall be brief, and speak plainly: would you, Perseus, be amenable,” he asked, “to marrying my daughter?”

Uh.

Oh.

Well.

“I… beg your pardon?”

Nonplussed, Fredrik rearranged several papers. “I have previously discussed it with her, and she has agreed to the proposition. She was quite insistent that we consulted you before any decision was made, of course.”

It seemed that the cold had frozen all of his mental faculties, bringing his thoughts to a grinding, stuttering halt. 

Percy had come up against a wide, wide range of peculiar situations in his short life. He had been stared down by gods, monsters, and all manner of supernatural entities, most of which wished him fatal injury. He had been accused of, among other things, stealing the most powerful weapon in history, then a mere four years later, had been offered the gods’ rarest, most precious gift. He had witnessed, firsthand, the passing of an age and the end of the greatest empire known to man. 

Absolutely none of it had prepared him for this moment.

“I…” He did not even know where to begin with such a request. “I… think, sir, there may be some confusion.”

“Nonsense,” Fredrik scoffed, reminding Percy eerily of his daughter. “What confusion could there be?”

What confusion? What of the fact that Percy was entirely unfit to be anyone’s husband, let alone Annabeth’s? “I am aware,” he said, slowly, “that some people have… perhaps loftier impressions of myself and my station than what may be accurate. Whatever you may have heard, unfortunately, I carry no blood claim to the _Palaiologoi_.”

Fredrik blinked, taken aback. “I had not heard such a rumor,” he said. “I do apologize if anyone has treated you strangely due to such misinformation.”

“I carry no claim to any sort of titles at all, truly,” Percy said, pressing the truth of the matter. “I am no prince nor royal bastard, no lord nor duke, but merely a fisherman and a foot soldier of the _allagion_.”

“And a son of Poseidon,” Fredrik added. “Lords and dukes can only dream of a peerage such as yours, my boy.”

As flattering as that was, Percy felt it was somewhat beyond the point. “What I mean to say, sir, is that there is not much I could offer your daughter by way of marriage.” Naught but his heart, a devotion and passion equal to the power of a thousand suns, but such things were immaterial, and not usually considered in terms of a marriage contract. “I have no titles nor lands, no family--I haven’t even a _lira_ to my name.”

“You need not concern yourself with the finances,” Fredrik said. “Anja herself possesses a considerable dowry--one or two tracts of land granted to her by my late brother which can be cultivated or exchanged as the two of you see fit.”

“I--be that as it may,” he stammered, floundering for some sort of purchase in this odd dream into which he had entered, “it was my understanding that Annabeth did not, precisely, wish to be married.” He kept the “ _to me_ ” quiet, unsaid. 

Not only had she certainly not been the greatest devotee of Hera, patroness of marriage, but the only time she had ever brought the topic up in conversation had been in reference to making herself Empress. Why on Earth would she agree to such a contract with Percy?

Fredrik sighed, removing his glasses and placing them on his desk. “How much has Anja spoken of our relationship?”

“Only the broadest strokes,” he said, a trifle embarrassed. He did not wish to divulge the deepest secrets of her unhappy childhood to the man responsible for much of it.

“Tell me, Perseus,” said Fredrik. “Do you have any children yourself?”

“No, sir,” Percy said, unsure of the direction of this conversation. “Not to my knowledge.”

Frowning, thoughtful, Fredrik held Percy in place with his keen eyes, so like his daughter’s. “While I love my sons, I would be remiss if I did not confess my numerous sins regarding the health and well-being of my first child. When the lady Athena gifted me with Anja, I had just returned from my stay at an English monastery, where I had been consulting with several of the monks there. I was a young man, not so much older than yourself, and in a similar financial predicament. My brother did not approve of my scholastic desires, and so provided me with little assistance. My union with Mary was, in part, an attempt to provide Anja with certain things she had never known before: namely, a mother, someone to whom she could turn whilst I was otherwise occupied. Unfortunately, as you well know, that is not how she saw it. And so, in my negligence and ignorance, what I thought was the right choice for her was merely the impetus she finally required in order to make an attempt for freedom.”

Somehow, Percy could not imagine Fredrik as a young man, so weighed down by years and years of regret and sorrow.

“I never imagined I would see her again; my Anja. I had presumed that she was lost to me forever, and then, once word of the defeat of Constantinople had reached us… Well, I had resigned myself to the fact of her death. It was a near inevitability. And then, you presented me with a miracle: Anja returned to me, and with forgiveness in her heart.” Then he smiled, and the years seemed to fade from his face. “I love my daughter, and I swore I would never do anything to lose her goodwill ever again. Unfortunately, as you and I well know, though she certainly would be able to live well and peacefully on her own, it can be rather difficult for an unmarried woman to make a name for herself. It can be done, and it has, but the presence of a husband can grease certain wheels, give her access to social circles in which I know she shall thrive. And there are other things to consider as well.” Shuffling the papers on his desk, he pulled one forth, squinting at it. “My wife has informed me that several young men in Uppsala have expressed their interest in marriage with Anja. The politics are long and tedious, so I shall not bore you with them, but you and I can both agree that she deserves to be more than a bargaining chip in a bloody conflict.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, for what else could he say? Percy would give her the world, if she but asked him to.

“I intend to remove her from the conflict entirely,” Fredrik went on. “And for that, we have agreed, there is no one better suited to the position than you: a friend and ally, and someone who will not press her to do anything which she does not want for herself.” 

Even seated, his hackles rose at the thought. 

As he fought valiantly to keep hold of his father’s legendary temper, Fredrik must have mistaken his silence for reluctance. “This arrangement is not agreeable to you?” he asked, concerned.

“Oh--no, sir, not at all--it is very agreeable, yes,” he rushed to assure him. How could he possibly explain that the man had just offered him his wildest, most precious dream, wrapped sweetly in a perfect little package? Every inch of him screamed to accept it. “I merely… do not know what to say.”

He wanted to say yes. Oh, how he _wanted_. He wished to wake up to her hair in his mouth, to her blinding smile in his bed, to take her in his arms and demonstrate the extent of his affection and passion for her. He wished for her every waking moment, every hour and minute of her presence, even if just to bask in the simple fact that he shared it with her. A lifetime with Annabeth, spent in the frozen North of Svealand--a better reward than anything any god had ever offered him.

“I…” 

Yet, he faltered. 

“If… if possible, sir, I should like to speak to Annabeth before any arrangements are finalized.”

Frowning lightly, Fredrik nodded. “I understand, though I do urge you not to linger too long on this decision. There are more things here at stake than perhaps you or I realize.”

If he had not spent so much of his adolescence as a demigod, he thought, such a vaguely ominous warning would have caused some concern. But it could not bother him now.

“I will speak with her today or tomorrow, sir.” Percy promised, though it was all he could do not to accept his offer right at this moment, to run from this room, find her, and kiss her. “As soon as possible. I merely wish to discuss with her directly regarding her expectations.” 

At that, Fredrik grinned a little, humor peeking out from behind his stern exterior. “Good man,” he said. “With that attitude, I am certain you will go far as a husband.”

In something of a daze, Percy wandered his way back to his sleeping quarters, his thoughts racing faster than Apollo’s chariot, turning every word of his conversation with Fredrik over in his mind, digging for any possible double-meanings. And yet, the meaning seemed perfectly clear: Annabeth and her father had discussed her prospects, and had come to the conclusion that marrying Percy was the proper course of action.

In his experience, such a boon never came without a price. It was something Annabeth herself had told him, once upon a time: there was no such offer so duplicitous as a free meal.

When he entered his room, he found the subject of his contemplations waiting on him there. “So,” Annabeth said, keen eyes piercing straight through to the heart of him, “I take it my father spoke with you?”

Wonderful; he did not need to catch her up to the situation at hand. “I did,” he said, an inexplicable irritation surging through him. “Though perhaps ‘ambushed’ may be a better term for it.”

She pursed her lips, but said nothing.

He knew, in his soul, that he should not speak to her like this, that he was more than capable of carrying out such a conversation with logic and reason--but month after month of freezing weather, strange food, and being stared at like an animal cage had taken its toll, and he found his patience had worn a bit thin. “Had I realized you were so keen on marriage,” he said, “I would have endeavored to bring you home sooner. Your father tells me there are several gentlemen all vying for your hand.”

“My step-mother’s doing, no doubt,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Were it my decision, I would not be in this predicament, I assure you.”

As he had suspected. “Well, then I suppose I should be grateful that, if you ever deigned to marry, I would be amongst the preferred candidates.”

Her mouth twisted, no doubt a clever retort just about to trip off the tongue, but, clenching her jaw, she wrangled it in. “I know it is in our nature to quarrel with each other,” she said, “but I would have your cooperation in this. If you agree, we shall be married; if you do not, we shall not. Surely it is within our power to make it so simple?”

There were many, many things he wished to say to her, beginning with how he did not appreciate being put on the spot in that manner, and ending with how marrying her would be the greatest achievement of his lifetime, but, curse of the demigods, his mind raced far ahead of his mouth, and all that came out was a statement only tangentially related. “I am not a farmer,” he blurted.

She raised her brows. “Beg pardon?”

“I--” he rubbed a hand over his face, attempting to pluck the words from the typhoon of his thoughts and feelings, “you know that I am only a foot soldier, yes? A foot soldier and a fisherman. Yes, I can claim the mantle of a hero, but what good does that do beyond the confines of the _agoge_? What could I possibly bring to the table? I do not know how to work the land, or manage assets, or--or be a husband.” And therein lay the truth, that he could not be the type of husband she would deserve. He could be a friend, an ally, and a traveling companion, and there their paths would branch off, leading them down two very different destinies. 

No matter how fervently he desired otherwise.

Annabeth let out a breath. There was raw, naked pity on her face, as though she had not considered he could feel this way. “You will not have to do any farming yourself,” she said, slowly. “There are people we could hire, help that we could bring in to manage all the things that we have no knowledge of. We could sell the land and use the money for something else entirely. And as for being a husband,” she bit her lip, shaking her head minutely, “you have been the most stalwart, steadfast friend a person could ever have. I imagine that a husband would require much the same qualities.”

That much was true, yes. Percy had experienced for himself two very different kinds of husbands, the ill-tempered and devoted, the creature of harsh words and the man of warmth and comfort, the monster of Percy’s childhood and his mother’s second husband. He thought of Paul, his easy understanding and his willingness to believe the wild yarn his wife had spun for him. To be a man like that, Percy felt that was a task he could manage, yet there were other things Paul had provided his wife… things that Percy did not know if Annabeth wanted from him. 

Swallowing, she tilted her chin up. Her eyes were glassy, shining in the candlelight. “I know this must not be what you had envisioned,” she said, speaking slowly as though she were choosing every word after much deliberation, “but there is… of the options provided, there is no one else to whom I would rather be married. I know you would treat me kindly, would be my friend and confidante; what more could any wife wish for?”

Ah. Now he understood. 

“Very well.” Percy held out his hand to her. “I formally accept your proposal.”

Percy was her tether to freedom. Presented with the inevitability of marriage, Annabeth had chosen the least undesirable path, a man who would, at the very least, not forcibly tie her to the hearth and home. 

Well, if that was the only service he was to provide for her, then provide it he could. 

With only a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand, and they shook on it. 

***

Several weeks later, they were married.

Percy had volunteered his services as best man to several of his fellow soldiers in Constantinople; it felt very strange to be on the other side of the festivities. Still, the ceremony itself was quite similar to the ones he had witnessed before. Considerably less icons, however. Given how the Eastern Romans had fought tooth and nail for their icons, to be married without them felt nearly like a betrayal, even though he put no stock in such things. 

Notice of their wedding had been posted on the church door of the little town nearby, in order to give people time enough to find reasons to object, should there be any. “Sometimes,” Alejandra had explained, “a man or a woman will have a number of wedded partners in a number of different towns; this gives a jilted lover the chance to come forward and name the philanderer publicly. Usually, though, it is to confirm that the two who are to be wedded are not so close in blood.”

Percy cast a thought to his convoluted family tree, and decided not to think on it further. 

He had nearly laughed, though, when the priest had asked him if there were any sins he wished to confess before he was wed. His sins against the church were varied and extensive, as were Annabeth’s; in all ways, save the most obvious, one could say that the two of them lived in sin together. He could not truly tell, but he thought he may have seen her suppress a smile out of the corner of his eye.

She looked lovely that day--as she did all on days--but on her wedding day, she had arrived in a royal blue dress that made his heart pound and his palms sweat, nearly the same darkness as the shawl he had gifted her, dark against her pale skin. Her hair had grown much longer since her ill-fated cut, and had been cleaned and maintained by her maid, looking even softer and more golden than it usually did, falling down over her shoulders, a garland placed on her head. 

There, in front of the gathered assembly, he vowed to honor, obey, have and hold until death, and slid a ring onto her finger. The priest conferred unto him a kiss of peace, and bade him to do the same to his wife. To Percy’s credit, he restrained himself from pulling her into his arms, and merely placed the absolute chastest of kisses on her lips. After the appropriate amount of time, Annabeth pulled back, her face a pristine mask, and Percy prayed that he had the same amount of composure. 

The celebratory feast, unfortunately, would prove to be much more difficult. 

Alejandro, merry on spiced wine and in his volunteer function as best man, had corralled the guests into a little wedding game which came from Anglia. The cooks had made enough buns and spice cakes to feed a small army, and, in a fit of insanity, the assembled party decided to stack them on top of each other, creating a sizable tower of buns, nearly as tall as Annabeth. “There we are, lovebirds!” he crowed in Spanish, as he was too inebriated for Latin, slinging his arm around Percy’s neck. “Here are the rules: you must kiss one another over the tower, and if it does not fall, your union will certainly be blessed!” 

The crowd, having finished their construction, took up the call, cheering them on, Alejandro physically dragging Percy up out of his seat, and pushing him towards the tower. Magnus was doing much the same to Annabeth, steering her to the other side.

“Alejandro, I--I cannot--”

But whatever excuse he tried to invent was lost over the approving jeers and cheers of their audience. Though he could not understand their words, he knew precisely what was required of him here.

Across the tower, Annabeth was flushed, with drink or embarrassment or cold, he could not tell, but she looked on him with expectant eyes, and he knew she was smart enough to have come to the same conclusion. To refuse to take part in this little game would be foolhardy, at best.

Up close, the tower of baked goods was not nearly so tall as it had seemed, and it was easy for him to lean down without disturbing the construction of food. On her side, Annabeth had closed her eyes, her lips parted, waiting for his to fall on her.

By his count, this was now their third kiss. Perhaps it was to be their last. He would savor it then, he told himself, commit to memory the softness of her lips and the redness of her cheeks, her long, golden eyelashes resting against her skin. 

A great, raucous cheer went up from the crowd, and they pulled apart, greeting their audience with bashful smiles.

Percy turned, ready to apologize to Annabeth for all of this. But he held his tongue when he saw the bright smile on her face. He knew her fake and forced smiles, this was not it. She was happy. And he could pretend, at least for a moment, that it was because of him, and not because of the clever situation she’s managed to get herself into. 

Eventually, the celebration ended, and they had to retire to bed. Percy had started down the hallway to retire to the guest quarters, until Annabeth had looked at him oddly, and he was suddenly reminded--of course, they were now married. They would be sharing a bed from now on. 

The very thought sent a shiver down his spine.

They had shared beds before, hundreds of times. On this journey alone, they had shared the bed of many an inn, simply to save money. For some reason, this time felt different.

Annabeth’s room was not so different to his own; a little larger, perhaps. Fredrik, Magnus, and Alejandro saw them off, Fredrik embracing his daughter and kissing her forehead. He whispered something to her in Swedish, and she nodded into his chest, sweetly. Then he looked at Percy, gave him a solemn nod, and departed. 

Now they were alone. 

The fire in the hearth had already been lit--and had been for a while, judging by the size and heat of the flame. That must have been why Percy suddenly felt hot beneath all his clothing. 

“Well,” he said, wandering to the other side of the bed. The room had no echo; it made it feel smaller, somehow. “I imagine that was not how you had envisioned your wedding, yes?”

She did not respond.

The heat of the room was bordering on suffocating. How odd, since he had only ever known the climate to be perpetually frozen. To alleviate this, he removed the outermost layer of his clothing. “Certainly it is not what I thought mine would be. In truth,” Percy said, filling the silence with his babble, “I had not thought that I would ever marry. Not because I detested the very idea, mind you,” he rushed to confirm, “but, you know how few of us reach the marriageable age in our line of work. It always felt like some sort of far-off dream to me. Yet, here we are! How amusing, yes?” 

Still nothing. 

He turned to her, then yelped. “Oh, forgive me! I had not realized--”

“It is fine, Percy,” she said, lowly. “We are married now; it is no sin to look at me undressed.”

While he was not looking, she had shed her clothes as well, folding her dress neatly for someone to claim later. Her underclothes were white, made of thick, sturdy material, perfect for cold, winter days. 

“Still,” he said. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You have not.” From behind, he watched her shoulders rise and fall as she sighed. “When I thought of my wedding,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “I did not think it would have so many Catholics.”

Percy laughed, a sound startled right out of his chest. “I as well!”

She chortled, too, causing the fabric of her dress to ripple. “If you must know,” then she turned to him, her hands deftly winding her hair into a braid, “I used to dream about being married in the ways of the shieldmaidens.” 

Sense memory, he remembered the feel of her stiff, bloody hair in his hands, gently twisting it this way and that. His fingers twitched. “What,” he coughed, “what did the ways of the shieldmaidens entail?”

He wondered for a moment, given the story she had told him of Katya and Clarice, if that was what she had meant by the ways of shieldmaidens, and if she had dreamed of that, when she had not dreamed of Lukas instead.

“Sacrifices, ritual baths--what one might expect from a wedding.” She tied the end of her hair off with a length of leather cord, the braid coming to rest over her shoulder, the tip of it tickling the neckline of her dress. “When the bride and the groom met in ceremony, they would exchange their weapons with one another.”

He nearly laughed, it seemed so in line with all that he had learned about the northern raiders. "Quite befitting a warrior’s culture," he mused. 

Nodding, she stepped closer towards the bed, though she made no move to lie down upon it, instead leaning against a bedpost. “The groom would present the sword of his ancestors which he had unearthed from the family tomb; in turn, the bride would gift him a weapon as well.” Weakly, she attempted a smile, though it looked to be more of a grimace to Percy’s eyes. “My father once told me that he had gifted my mother a weapon such as this. Unfortunately, she was not so familiar with the custom, and so would not accept it.”

Her lips turned downwards, her whole posture sagging with a muted sorrow. 

Oh, why not. “We both have our own ancestral weapons,” he said. “If you are amenable, we could exchange them now.”

She flicked her eyes up to him. 

“It is no trouble for me.” If it would make her smile, he would take _Anaklusmos_ and toss it into the hearth itself. Lending her his sword for a while was nothing. 

She studied him, her lips thin as they pressed against each other. “You truly would not mind?” she asked. “I know it is a silly tradition.”

Rather than answer, he pulled his sword from his belt. The magical item, when not in use, took the form of a key, for ease of portability. Whispering its name, a powerful summons, it grew into the long, leaf-bladed _xiphos_ his father had gifted him, and he held it out to her, hilt-first. 

“Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter,” he said, these strange syllables finally at home on his tongue, “I offer you my sword.” He did not know if the words were correct, but he prayed that they would suffice. 

Across the bed, her large, grey eyes shone in the firelight. Her mouth quivered with furiously checked emotion, and she had to turn to hide her face, snatching something out of the bundle of clothing she had discarded. When she turned back, she had not regained her composure--not one bit. “Perseus _thalassinos_ ,” she murmured, holding out her knife towards him, hilt-first, just as she had so many months ago, in the middle of nowhere with dead men at their feet, the highest act of trust she could muster. “I offer you my sword.”

Over the bed, they exchanged their weapons. 

Taking the bronze knife in his hand, he felt different, somehow. He felt as though he had passed through a door of some kind, had crossed over into a newer, stranger world, and yet, he felt no danger, for he had a partner at his side, one who would see him through all senses of conflict.

Brandishing his weapon, Annabeth took one look at it, then promptly burst into tears.

Percy dropped the knife. It clattered against the cold stones, forgotten. “Annabeth,” he asked, rushing to her side, “Annabeth, what is wrong?”

Drawing in a shuddering breath, she shook her head, her whole body trembling as a tree caught in a mighty storm. Fearful that she would accidentally hurt herself, he plucked the sword from her grasp, tossing it carelessly aside, and gently wrapped his hands around her upper arms. 

“Annabeth, what is it?” 

She grasped him in return. Her grip was always strong, and now her fingers dug into his muscles, squeezing him tight. “I--” she sobbed, “I--” Her chest was seized with hysterical breaths, her eyes shut tightly. “This is--I--it was not supposed to be like this,” she gasped. Tears flowed freely from beneath her eyelids, glittering like crystals in the firelight.

“I know,” he breathed. “I know, and I am sorry.” Sorry that she was stuck with the likes of him. She could have had her pick of the world--lords and emperors and whoever else--and somehow, she had the misfortune of being tied to him. 

“No, it is not--” she wept. “Silena, we had al-always spoken of--and you have been so kind and--and understanding, but I--we--and I dragged you halfw-way across the world, but I know you h-hate it here--”

“I do not hate it here,” he protested, even though it was true.

“I had thought m-my wedding would be held at the camp.” Were he not listening so intently, he would not have heard her words, warbled and warped as they were by her heaving sobs. “On the b-beaches of _Troia_ , and my m-mother would be there, but she is _gone_ , and camp is gone, and--I--I just--”

“I am here,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulders. “Oh, Annabeth, I am here.”

She opened her eyes, grey storm clouds glinting with lightning.

“It is alright,” he told her. He understood her feelings well; not a day had gone by without a thought to the whereabouts of their friends, of their family. But here they were, together, and that was all that mattered. “You are not alone,” he swore . “I will stick by you, I promise.”

With a trembling sigh, she threw her arms around him. He pressed her close, his arms coming up to circle her torso, holding her to his chest. “I am sorry,” she gasped, “I am so sorry.”

“It is alright,” he said, a hand coming up to the bottom of her neck to better support her. “You do yourself no disservice.”

“N-no, it is not--” she shuddered, a localized earthquake within his arms. “The marriage,” she said, “it is not--not legal unless we--we--”

He knew precisely what she was going to say, and though his heart surged at the idea--and he was certain she could feel it, pressed so close to him as she was--his mind, thankfully, was in control for the time being. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Not tonight.”

That seemed to shock her out of her panic. She stilled in his arms, her wails subsiding. 

Poor thing, she must have been so worried that whoever she married would attempt to force her to fulfill the marriage contract. Once again, he cursed the whole damnable institution; he knew so often that women had so little say in matters of the flesh. Well, Percy was not like other men, and he would not take something which she was not prepared to give. He would not do that to any woman, let alone one whom he loved so deeply.

She pulled back. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. “It is our wedding night,” she said, dumbly. 

“Yes,” Percy agreed, “but we do not have to do anything that you do not want to do.”

“But it is our wedding night,” she insisted. 

“I know.”

“Our marriage is not legal if we do not.”

“I understand.”

“But…” she blinked, casting about for her words. “But…”

“We can claim that the festivities left us too exhausted to do naught but sleep,” Percy said. “Or we can claim that we consummated the marriage anyway. Surely your father will not check your sheets for blood.”

Dumbfounded, she gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing around nothing. Percy had grown to rather enjoy rendering her speechless, though this time around, it left something of a bad taste in his mouth.

“I do not think we should do anything tonight,” he said. “To take advantage of you… of anyone this way, would be a most unforgivable sin.”

He had thought she would agree. Surely he had assuaged her worries. 

Instead, her eyes narrowed. “On the contrary,” she said, her voice still thick with tears. “I believe we should consummate the marriage tonight.”

“Annabeth--”

“You think I am too weak to fulfill the marital contract.”

“Of course not,” he scoffed.

“Then there is no reason to delay,” she said. “And, moreover, I…” 

Trailing off, her cheeks filled with blood. Percy’s heart throbbed in his chest, deafening. 

“I… I want it,” she said, a whisper on a breeze.

Helpless, he could only watch as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. 

“Do you… do you not?”

Beneath his vision, he could just barely see her bosom as it moved in time with her breathing. Oh, Anja, he wanted nothing more in the world than you at this moment!

She shuttered her eyes closed again, as though she were in pain. “I am sorry,” she repeated--for what, though, he could not imagine. “But I am afraid that… that if we do not… then some would see our union as--as invalid.”

The bubble of fantasy burst, and reality set in.

Of course. Politics and power-broking. To save herself, she would give herself to him. To protect her, he had to let this happen.

It was the easiest choice he ever made. 

Bending his neck, he leaned down, and he kissed her.

As a flower in the dawn, she opened herself to him. 

Her mouth was warm against his, her lips soft. Through the fabric of her dress, he could feel every muscle as she pressed up against him, could feel her breath hitch as he laid her down on the bed, as his hands pushed the hemline of her nightclothes up her thighs. 

It felt as though every choice he had ever made, every path he had ever taken and every one he had ever shunned, had led to this moment, to Annabeth, panting and hot beneath him. Percy had been lucky enough to be the paramour of goddesses, disciple and student both, and now he had a chance to demonstrate what he had learned. If she were to be tied to him in this way, if this were his only chance to show her how he truly felt, then tonight, he vowed, he would make it worth her while. 

She tasted just as sweet as he had dreamt she would. Her cries of passion, more beautiful than any music he had ever known. 

And when he entered her, her scrunched face and wrinkled nose relaxing into slack pleasure, he held himself still, gazing on it, committing every single detail to his deepest, most sacred memory. 

They moved together. Over and over again, they moved together, her legs slowly traveling up the backs of his thighs, ticklish and feathery. “Percy,” she gasped, one of his hands coming up to cup her breast, the other hard at work at the apex of her thighs. “Percy!”

“Anja,” he murmured into her neck. “Anja.”

With a wail, she tossed her head back, her braid loose and messy against the pillows, her legs tightening about his waist.

He could not stop himself even if he wanted to. And he did not want to.

Close behind, he followed her over the edge, hissing through his teeth as they took the plunge together. 

It could have been days until Percy came back to his senses, days spent in the Elysium of Annabeth’s embrace. Her heartbeat was as ragged as his, and they beat in twain, a call and an answer. 

Then she shifted beneath him. “Percy.” 

“Oh.” He untangled himself from her, his limbs suddenly so awkward and gangly, pulling himself out and away, then lay down next to her, his hot, sweaty skin suddenly freezing in the cold air.

And there it was. Something of a lifelong dream, fulfilled. 

Now if only he could discover why he felt so empty. 

After a while, Annabeth threw back the sheets, and got out of bed. Percy tried not to linger too much on her bare form, even as he marveled how she was able to withstand the cold without so much as a protective shift. Then she bent over, picking something up from the floor, and Percy, only a mortal man, he could not resist.

Gods above, she was truly the most stunning creature ever to walk this earth. Every inch of her seemed to be perfectly crafted to send him into a frenzy of passion. So intent was he on taking in the whole beautiful picture that he nearly missed the trickle of something down the inside of her legs, belatedly realizing what it was.

He had to physically tear himself away, flopping himself back down on the sheets, to put that thought to bed. _Demonic harpies_ , he chanted to himself. _Stymphalian birdsong. Lord Dionysus in a_ pankration _._ Anything which would stop his baser instincts from manifesting themselves. 

So focused on his own body was he, he did not notice what Annabeth was doing until it was much too late. “Annabeth,” he gasped, “what--”

But she had already used her knife to cut her hand, letting dark blood drip onto the white sheets. “There,” she said. “Now no one will have cause for doubt.”

He moved to leave the bed himself. “Let me see your hand--”

“It is fine,” she stopped him, already wrapping it up in a length of cloth she had ripped from her underclothes. “It shall cease to bleed by morning.”

“I am sorry,” he said, though he was not certain which sin required her forgiveness. “I did not mean to…” To what? Break her heart? Plant his seed? Fall in love? He had not meant to do any of these things, yet still, they had been done, and could not be undone. But, there was one thing for which he could apologize. “I am sorry that you must bear this burden,” he said. “It is not fair to you.”

“As I said,” Annabeth replied, slipping back beneath the covers, turning away from him. “It is fine. Good night, Perseus.”

Then silence reigned in the bedroom. 

Percy could not fall asleep for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this part was originally (checks notes) 16,000 words long (how), but i have chopped it in half and raised the total number of chapters to 11 (wtf). good news, this means the next chapter is already written! will post sometime next week
> 
> glossary (light on vocab this week!):  
> • again, i know comparatively nothing about sweden and i apologize!  
> • allagion: the standing army of Constantinople during the siege  
> • i couldn't find an original source for the thing about the tower of baked goods but it was so cute i couldn't resist  
> • xiphos: idk if richard ever namedrops the type of sword in the books, but that's what riptide is (also, richard, i know swords have gravitas and all, but what if you had given percy a trident 👀👀👀 js)


	9. Chapter 9

“Have you ever seen snow before?” Alejandro asked him, one bright and startlingly cold morning, as though all mornings here were not equally startlingly cold.

He had enlisted Percy’s participation in a round of hunting this morning, something light-hearted and fun to occupy their time while their spouses dealt with the latest political nonsense from the big cities, something to do with a union of nations and a dissatisfied noble class. Annabeth had done her best to explain it to him plainly, but his ears simply could not hold onto all the people, places, and events she discussed, and he had unwittingly begun to filter out her words after a few minutes or so. Rather than volunteer his no-doubt clumsy and ill-witted assistance, he had reluctantly agreed to be dragged outside.

At the very least, the garments the family provided him were quite warm. Still, he had a very large nose, and he was certain he could no longer sense the very tip of it.

“I have, sir,” he grumbled, flexing his frozen fingers inside of their large, furred mittens. “It did, in fact, snow on occasion in the South. As well, I have spent some time in Dardania, where it would snow heavily and frequently.” That had been the few months he had spent under the tutelage of Lupa, mother of Rome. She had been a harsh teacher, sterner and far less forgiving than Chiron, but she had beaten into him a kind of fastidiousness and respect for the harsh, wild climate of the mountains, teaching him to see the beauty in the rugged, barren landscapes.

“Terrible stuff, no?”

“Absolutely wretched.”

“In my hometown, _Sevilla_ ,” he said, “there usually falls a soft layer of snow, but only up in the mountains. When Magnus first brought me here, I had assumed the land was under some sort of magical spell, and we had been charged with freeing the people from the grip of endless winter. Alas, imagine my sorrow when the curse was not lifted, and winter came once again in a few short months.” He sighed, melodramatic, and Percy snorted. “Still, I have grown used to it. It is not so bad if you dress warmly, as you have discovered for yourself. The summers are my favorite, of course--I believe you may feel the same.”

Percy, wisely, held his tongue. To admit to your host that the thought of staying here for nearly a full year made your stomach roil, was nearing the absolute height of rudeness. Rather, he swallowed instead, stretching his mouth in a grimacing smile that, he prayed, looked convincing.

“You would not think it, but the summers can be quite warm. Not nearly the temperature to which you are accustomed, obviously, but warm all the same. But the true joy is the length of days; to make up for this endless, blasted darkness, the summer days are stretched far beyond their natural limit, and believe you me, my friend, by the end of summer, you will tire so much of the bright nights that you will beg for a little darkness.”

“I have heard tell,” he said, with a faint touch of horror, “that some days, the sun never rises, and the people are plagued with eternal night. Is this true?”

He shook his head. “Not so far South, but yes. The ancient peoples of this land lived quite comfortably in such darkness, and still do, if you can believe it.”

Closing his eyes against the bright glare of the sun on the snow, he tried to imagine a life lived in perpetual night, to never have seen the glory of Apollo’s light, to live only in the wan glow of fire, to never be able to ascend the tip of a mountain and look out into the beyond, the peaks and valleys bathed in the warm, golden glow of the sun. 

He found he could not. 

“You mentioned you had lived in, what was the name? Sev--Sevi--”

“ _Sevilla_ ,” he said. “Perhaps you may know it better as _Hispalis_ , or _Isbiliyah_?”

Oh, blast these slippery tongues which he could not speak! “ _Hispalis_ , yes,” said Percy. “I have never been myself, though I could indicate its location on a map.”

“In that, we are once again quite similar,” joked Alejandro, “for I could say the same of your fair city.”

“What was it like?” he asked, hoping that all this talk of warmer climes would help him to forget the cold. “Your _Hispalis_?”

Alejandro smiled, bright and free, his face shining in the sunlight. “Even I have heard tell of the beauty of your Constantinople, and though I have never seen the famed St. Sophia, I know in my heart that _Sevilla_ outshines her even on her darkest days. The summers are long and hot, the wind from the sea bringing the scent of salt and spice in through the open windows of the old stone walls, curling and twisting as they wend their way towards the sky! Oh, Perseus, you have not known true beauty until you have seen the arches and gardens of the _Real Alcázar_ , or watched the sun set from atop the _Torre del Oro_!” 

So ecstatic was he, that Percy could not help but smile alongside him. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Only every day of my life. Well,” he amended, “the city, yes. There is no fairer jewel in the world than _Sevilla_ , and I shall fight any man to the death who should disagree, but I can say with certainty that all that I have here, with Magnus, is infinitely better than what I had left behind.”

“What did you leave behind?” Percy asked. “If you are comfortable sharing with a stranger, of course, I should very much like to know.”

Trudging forward in the snow, Alejandro shook his head fondly. “You are no longer a stranger, brother, and I am happy to share. Much like your wife, I, too, was sent by my father to live in a religious order at a young age--the _Monasterio de San Clemente_ \--only I did not run away before my foot ever touched consecrated ground. Though,” he acknowledged with a sardonic tilt of his head, “I am certain you can imagine just how little I cared for monastic life.”

“Because of your…” he trailed off, unsure of how to phrase such a delicate topic. “Your situation,” he finished, lamely.

Alejandro snorted a laugh, the corner of his lips curling upwards. “My situation, yes. In any case, by the time I was expected to take certain vows, it came to the attention of the _Abad_ that not only had I been shirking my duties at the monastery to a level previously unheard of, but I had, at the same time, also been in training at the convent around the corner, as one of the sisters.”

Startled right out of his chest, Percy laughed, a bark in the cold, quiet forest. “ _Malaka_ ,” he chuckled. “I cannot even imagine what they might have thought.”

“It was quite the eventful week,” he said, suffused with an odd sort of nostalgia. “But, unlike my dear sister, my own father was not so accommodating, nor so open minded. There was nothing for me in _Sevilla_ but beautiful buildings and a family who no longer wanted me--thus, I had no qualms about accompanying my husband to his ancestral home. After all,” he shrugged, gesturing to the dense forest, its dark green needles nearly black against the bright, white snow, “one could argue that this is my ancestral home as well.”

Yes, that was a topic about which Percy was somewhat perplexed. “Forgive me if my question is indelicate, sir,” he said, “but I confess, I am not so knowledgeable about your pantheon. If the _Aesir_ hail from the far North, how is it that Loki came to sire you in _Hispania_?”

“You misunderstand me, friend, for _Bölvasmiðr_ was not my father, but my mother instead.”

Percy blinked, stopping in his tracks. “Oh.” 

And he had thought his family tree was complicated. 

A rustle in the trees, then Alejandro held up his fist, a gesture for quiet and stillness. He cocked his head, listening intently, slowly turning round. Only when no further sound presented itself did he relax. 

Percy blinked again, suddenly feeling as though he had somehow lost a handful of time.

“Well,” said Doña Alejandra, “onward, good sir.”

Trudging forward, she charged on ahead, leaving Percy to scramble behind her in her wake. 

“Think you,” she asked, “that the _Magians_ did not command the southern seas as skillfully as they did the northern ones?”

“The _Magians_?” he repeated, dumbly. Percy’s head swam, the cold freezing all his thought processes until he was as stupid as all his enemies claimed him to be.

“Ah, I do not know the word in your tongue,” she said, frowning. “The northern raiders, the ones whom Anja tells me were contracted to protect your precious emperor.”

Percy looked away, attempting to recall the word. Annabeth had said it, months ago, in the little room with the single candle in Athens--”The Varangians?”

“Yes!” she snapped her fingers. “That’s the one. _Magian_ , _Varangian_ , here they call them _Vikinga_ , meaning one who seeks adventure. Charming, no? They certainly ventured as far as their ships could carry them, all the way round the western coast of Christendom until they sacked _Sevilla_ some six hundred or so years ago. They must have brought their gods with them, I presume, and then the _cabrónes_ never left. How amusing it must have been,” she laughed, “to suddenly find themselves in a land of endless summer, vying for attention with all the rest of the divinities who had already made themselves quite at home.”

“I suppose,” said Percy. 

“ _Sevilla_ has always been a city of many faiths, all bumping up against each other. The Christians, the Moors, the Jews; they all brought their Lord with them when they settled on the beaches of _Andalusia_. What is one more, I say? The gods, without fail, shall always follow their believers.”

Would that were true, Percy mused, at least as it pertained to himself.

He shivered, a cold wind blowing against his face quite unexpectedly. 

“Hold.” Alejandra thrust out her hand, stopping Percy in his tracks. “Quiet.”

Magnus had authorized Percy the use of his crossbow for hunting, but given how hopeless Percy was with a standard bow and arrow, he did not have much hope that he would be able to successfully target and kill any mobile creature with it, but Alejandra appeared to have the situation well in hand, raising her own crossbow, her mismatched eyes staring intently above the tree line, her finger near caressing the trigger. 

With a crack, a _thwack_ , and a loud braying noise, something large toppled over beyond a few trees, landing in a snowdrift with a soft _thump_. 

“ _¡Guau!_ ” she crowed, pumping her fist in the air. “We shall have a feast tonight, I can promise you! Now, make haste, _thalassinos_ , for it is cold, and I am in dire need of a skirt.”

They did, indeed, have a feast that night, a feast of venison and good, red wine. Percy had been privately dreading what strange and terrible creation might the cook have prepared, such as the sour, fermented cabbage, or the meatballs in a brown, cream sauce which Annabeth had sworn up and down tasted just like his mother’s keftedes. She had been so incorrect in that assumption, Percy had briefly considered divorcing her on the spot for such an infraction. 

Yet the meat was simply, marvelously prepared tonight, roasted with salt and paired with a wine imported from somewhere in Francia which was a little too sour for his taste, though Percy certainly was not one who frequently partook of the beverage. At the _agoge_ , wine had been strictly forbidden as part of Lord Dionysus’ punishment, and so Percy had only really gotten to have it during his brief period with Legion. 

After days and days of salmon, Percy almost felt guilty to be enjoying meat other than fish, as if his father would somehow be aware of it, and be displeased with him. 

The thought strikes him about as quickly and severely as a bolt from the heavens--a sensation with which he was, unfortunately, well acquainted. 

His father. Gods above, his _father_. 

Startled, he dropped his cut of meat, wincing internally as it landed on the wooden table with a soft _thud_ , disrupting what had been a lively conversation which he still could not understand. As a hawk, Annabeth sharply turned towards him, grey eyes full of concern. “Percy? Are you alright?” Fredrik, Magnus, and Alejandra looked on him as well, all in varying degrees of worry or bewilderment.

“Ah--yes. I am fine. Please, do not let me interrupt.”

She raised a brow, unconvinced, but with pursed lips, turned back towards her cousin, resuming what must have been an utterly fascinating debate.

Alejandra reached out towards him, laying her hand on his upper arm. “Truly, you are well?” she asked, her voice low. 

He nodded. “Yes, of course. I merely--remembered something which I had forgotten.”

“Oh?”

A part of him, deeply held and strikingly jealous, did not really wish to share with Alejandra, even though he considered her his closest friend in Svealand, but given how patient she had been with him, how supportive and understanding she had been, he supposed he owed it to her. “At the _agoge_ ,” he said, slowly, “before every meal, it was our custom to make an offering to the gods. We would take a portion of our food, the best portion, and toss it into the hearth, so that our parents may bestow us with their blessing when next we had need of it.”

“Into the fire?” Her expression was dubious, one eyebrow delicately arched. 

He had the distinct sense that she did not believe him. “The gods, they feed off the smoke,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. “They do not eat food like you and me.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that,” she said, “I am merely surprised, is all.”

He frowned. “Regarding?”

“That your father demands so much praise.” She tilted her head, considering. “My divine progenitor expected quite a lot from me as well, but usually not so much sycophancy.”

“It--he--” Percy stammered. “He did not--it was not demanded of us, that we praise them so.”

“Was it not?”

“No,” he insisted. “It was respect, politeness, not… not groveling or fawning or the like.”

Alejandra still looked quite skeptical, but she did not push the issue further. “Well, if you feel so strongly, then you are free to use the fire,” she said, indicating towards the large hearth against the wall. “Go on. Make your offering.”

It was a simple enough task. There was a particularly fatty piece of meat, glistening in the firelight, all ready to go. All Percy had to do was walk over to the hearth, place the food onto the coals, and speak the words which he must have said thousands of times: here’s to the gods. The ritual was uncomplicated.

And yet.

Percy glanced towards Annabeth, deep in conversation with her father. 

He racked his brain, but he could not recall a single instance of Annabeth making an offering during their stay in Birka. Styx, he could not even recall a single instance of her making an offering during their journey North. If he truly thought about it, long and hard, he vaguely remembered throwing a fish into the fire one night, camped next to those horrid, horrid rapids, as he gave thanks for Annabeth’s life, and then… and then the days had begun to blur together, day after day of endless sailing, of a sick, hard pit in his stomach that screamed at him to turn ‘round, to go back to where he belonged. 

“Would it be rude, do you think,” he asked his hostess, “to make such an offering to the Olympians in the land of the _Aesir_?”

“I should think not,” said Alejandra. “Certainly, neither Magnus nor Uncle Fredrik would take offense.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I care not,” she said, with a twist of a grin. “Neither, I think, would your wife.”

Would she? He could not say. Perhaps she would think him a fool to be chasing after the approval of one who had long since abandoned him, or perhaps she would take it to mean that he was ungrateful to the land and the family which had housed him during these long winter months. 

In the end, he could not make a decision. The evening meal stretched on, with Alejandro, for he had become a man during the meal, attempting to corral him into some kind of conversation, and sadly failing, until only Percy remained. “Will you be along shortly?” his wife had asked him.

Percy had nodded, though he could not say for certain how long he would linger at the table. To be alone in the dining hall was far different than it was to be alone in his bedroom. At least out here, he could pretend that he was still in the pavilion at the _agoge_ , or the villas of the Legion, lingering over a pleasant meal and more pleasant company.

The fire still glowed, nearly burned all the way down to its embers, warm and soft, pulsing. 

Many years ago, on the eve of the final day of a great and terrible battle, he had met with the spirit of the flame, the goddess of the hearth, and had entrusted her with the task of safe-guarding Hope so that he would not be tempted to give it up, and surrender to despair. She had challenged him to a riddle, of sorts, and in solving it, he had gained the key to defeating Lukas and the Titan king.

Hope survives best at the hearth, he had told her. 

Hope now fluttered in his breast, weak and small, but there, alive. 

If he made his offering, here in this foreign land, even after all this time… would his father, somehow, hear him?

He stood up, the chair scraping on the floor. Snatching up the last portions of his dinner, he stepped over to the hearth, whose light slowly dimmed with every passing second. 

Percy went down on one knee, and laid the last slice of wheat bread on the still-glowing coals. His fingers trembled so much, he nearly dropped it. “Lord Poseidon,” he murmured, “ _Asphaleios_ , _Epoptes_ , father.”

For a moment, there was only quiet.

Nothing happened. The flames did not rise, sudden and hot. There were no voices, speaking to Percy within the corners of his mind. 

There was nothing. Nothing, just as it was when he was but a child, and he did not yet know of his father who had been too much of a coward to claim him until it was nearly too late.

Slowly, he blew out a breath, his shakes easing. At least now he knew.

When he returned to his bedroom, Annabeth was already asleep. Wasting not a moment, he shed his daytime clothing, slipping on as many pairs of socks and undergarments as he could get away with, then slid in beside her, turning on his side away from her.

At least now he was certain. 

***

There is the smell of salt. Figs. Flowers, and smoke. 

Percy opens his eyes. There is sunlight, bright and pulsating, the sun itself far closer to the earth than it should be. 

He sits up, taking in his surroundings. Lush, green fields, an undulating sea of flowers in full bloom. Sea birds calling overhead, crying out for each other, swooping careless and free. 

He knows precisely where he is.

Having gone to bed bundled up in the warmest clothes he could find, it is something of a shock when he stands up and sees himself clothed in nothing but a _chiton_ and a pair of sandals. It is all well, however; the morning sun is hot, and the rocks are sharp, and he is grateful for the protection. 

The wind, sharp and tangy, pushes him towards the edge of the plateau, and he goes willingly. It is one, two, three, ten steps before he reaches the edge of the cliff, the breeze buffeting his clothes, his hair, and he holds out his arms, letting the force of the air weave between his outstretched fingers. Dried grass crunches beneath his feet. Before him, the bluest expanse of the water, a dip-dyed cloth of lapis lazuli stretched all around him, bunching about the islands off in the distance. Far, far off, he can see the top of a mountain, can see the snow as it dusts the very points and tips, the fingers of the earth which still reach for the dome of the sky. 

Down on the beach, at the very edge of the water, he sees a man. A moment’s hesitation, then he begins the long trek down the cliff.

With each step forward, the earth comes up to meet him, a staircase down from heaven, until he has joined the man on the beach. The man does not turn to greet him. 

He is tall, with thick, curly black hair, skin tanned nut brown from hours in the sun, hours upon hours and days upon days of burning, peeling, healing, over and over and over again. He, too, wears a plain white _chiton_ , a rope tied about his waist in a simple sailor’s knot, and on his head, a crown of celery leaves. 

Beside him, his trident has been stuck in the sand.

“Father.”

The earth-shaker turns to him, his twinkling eyes the color of the water beneath his feet, the same as his own. “Perseus,” he rumbles in return. “There you are! I was wondering where you had gotten off to.”

A child all of twelve, Percy had knelt upon first meeting his father. Now, he does not move a muscle.

With a groan, Poseidon eases himself down onto a nearby rock, one hand pressed to his back. “Come,” he says. “Come and sit with me awhile. You have traveled quite far, no? I would hear one or two of your adventures, should you wish to share them.”

Percy cannot move, too busy drinking in the sight of him. 

During the war, the great Titanomachy, he had looked every bit as ancient as he truly was, with white hair and deep furrows carved into the skin of his face, but he does not look so haggard now. Indeed, he looks much the same as when Percy last left him. Still, Percy can plainly see that he is hounded by some grievance, some great worry that will not leave him, hung around his neck like a stone collar. He can plainly see, for it is the very look Percy himself wears when something is troubling him.

His request rebuffed, still Poseidon does not appear to be too bothered by Percy’s immobility. He looks out to the sea, lifting his face to the salty breeze coming off of the water. “ _Thálatta, thálatta_ ,” he murmurs, an ancient litany. “The sea is never the same twice, but oh, how I have missed this view.”

Heart slowly rising up his throat, Percy tries to calm his breathing. It would not do, he thinks, to go into hysterics before the lord of the sea. 

Above them, Helios’ chariot races across the sky, faster and more quickly than any natural day, shadows shifting from West to East before his very eye, growing longer with each breath.

“Our time is short,” says Poseidon, gently, the calm, even push and pull of the tides. “I know you must have questions. Speak, and I shall answer.”

Questions, yes. He has a thousand, each one vying for his breath and his tongue. But there is one question which will always come first. “My mother?” he croaks, his voice hoarse. 

The god of the deep smiles, affection softening the harsh lines of his face. “Safe,” he promises. “She and her family both. Where they landed, I cannot say, but I saw to it myself that they passed the blockade unharmed.”

Good. That is good. His mother, Paul, dearest Esther; they are all of them safe. 

His heart thumps wildly, sorrow and rage blocking his throat. The core of him shakes so violently that he is worried he will shake himself apart, here on the rocks, dissolving into nothing more than sea air.

“You have always been a good son to your mother,” Poseidon says, “and you are right to ask after her, yet I cannot imagine that you have no more questions for me. Go on.”

Percy draws in a shuddering breath.

“That night, in the city…” It haunts him still, the flash of light above St. Sophia, the vision he’d had of the lords of Olympus as they took flight. “What happened?”

He looks towards Percy, frowning, his thick, bushy brows drawing together. “I am sorry that you bore witness to it. Such sights are not made for mortal eyes.”

“Rachael saw it, too,” he says.

“Indeed. My nephew’s oracles are blessed, yes, but cursed as well, to see more and know more than any of their peers. No doubt she still suffers as well, wherever she is now.”

“But what was it?” he presses. He will not be denied answers, not after so long.

Poseidon sighs, casting his gaze down to the sandy beach. The wind blows in cool from the placid waters, ruffling the fabric of his clothes. 

In his mind, in his memory, Poseidon always looms so large. The first time he ever saw him, his father had towered above him on his fisherman’s throne, a pillar of might, a beacon of strength, the power humming just beneath his skin, even when he brought himself down to Percy’s size. To see him among the mortals, no one would have mistaken him for anything other than what he is; a lord, a king, a divinity of unimaginable strength.

Now, though. Now he simply looks tired.

“What you witnessed,” he says, “has happened twice before. Always have we accompanied our believers, even through metamorphosis and transfiguration. Once, we dwelt atop _Olympos_ , and there we ruled over the land of _Hellas_ ; then, they built temples to our glory on _Roma_ ’s mightiest hill. And then when the emperor moved his seat of power to that village on the coast, the place they called _Constantinopolis,_ there we followed, and there we remained for a thousand years. But no empire can last forever, my son. Not even Rome, for all its glories, all its might and all its power.” He smiles, softly, sadly. “Not even us.”

The birds call overhead, singing as they soar above the caldera, as they always have, as they always will. Percy cannot hear it for the pounding of his heart.

His father’s shadow falls over him as the sun begins to more fully set, dipping below those far off mountains. The dome of the sky burns a bright orange now at its edges, blue turning to deep, inky purple, as a few glittering stars appear, a latticework of light. 

“The hour grows late,” intones the god of the sea. “Choose your last question wisely.”

He raises his head, looking into his father’s gaze. He can feel his edges blurring, his fading form as he is called away from this sacred space.

There is only one thing he wishes to know.

“Why?”

His father does not require him to further specify.

He sighs, turning finally to face him. 

“Because it was our time,” is all he says.

The sky shifts above him, the blue glow of the moon as she rises above the horizon casting the waters in a cool, otherworldly green. “What,” Percy breathes, “what does that mean?”

“It means, my son, that there are powers far older and stronger than my brothers and I. Powers that we cannot overcome. Laws that we must obey.” His eyes are hard, sharp like the cliffs. “I could not have stopped the siege anymore than I could have stopped the tides--and even if I had possessed such power, I would not have used it.”

The cries of the city echoed in his ears, phantom screams and ghostly wails from nowhere but the inside of his own mind. “All those people,” he whispers. “The city of Constantine stood for a thousand years, and you simply sat by and watched it happen.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “We did.”

Percy shakes his head. “I know--I know that the Romans gave themselves over to the trinity god, and I understand why your lord brother would be angry with such disrespect, but all of those who still believed--everyone at the _agoge_ \--what reason did you have for abandoning them? I--we made our sacrifices to you every day, walked the earth and vanquished monsters in your names and for your glories. We _died_ for you,” his voice rises with each word, a dragon in his chest, “Carlo and Silena and Lukas and countless others--and what of the sailors who prayed in your name without knowing it every time they put to sea? Or the soldiers who petitioned the heavens for mercy, or the women and children who ran through the streets in fear and in terror and begged for your protection,” and he is weeping now, tears falling easily from his eyes, “were we not enough? Had we offended you in some way? Had I--was I--”

He cuts himself off with a curse, turning his head to the side. He cannot go on. 

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Percy looks up through the veil of his grief and sees its mirror image in his father. “Of course not,” he murmurs. 

“Then,” he sobs, his chest heaving with the force of his breath, stuttering, shaking, “then why? Why did the lady Athena abandon her ancient temple? Why did you l-leave me?” 

Valiantly, he holds his grief to his chest, his fists wrapped tightly around it, nails digging into his palms. Yet Poseidon sees right through him. “Do not hold back your tears, my son,” he kindly commands. “I see that you have not given yourself the time to grieve. There is no shame in your sorrow. Let your lamentations fill the sea, until its very borders have burst, and you have drowned us all with the force of it.”

And so he shatters.

He weeps, weeps for the end of the world and the passing of time. He weeps for the thousand year old walls reduced to ash and dust, for the celestial dome of St. Sophia, for the last breath of Rome and the desecration of her body.

He weeps for his mother, cast adrift from the only home she had ever known. He weeps for his friends and allies, vanished into the air. He weeps for Annabeth, for the shattered look on her face when she first beheld the ruined Parthenon, for the loss of her home and her freedom, so indelibly tied to him as she is now.

And he weeps for himself, for the loss of the city which had raised him.

“There,” says his father. “Let your grief be a raging river--let it wash all away.”

Percy crashes to his knees, the sand rough against his skin, and he weeps, his hands tearing at his hair, beating his breast.

And then, eventually, he can cry no more. 

Poseidon has fallen to the ground with him, down on one knee, his hand still on Percy’s shoulder. There is no shame in his gaze, no cloying pity, only understanding. “I prayed to you,” he says, broken, battered, bereaved. “Every night, I prayed to you. And I know Annabeth did the same. Was it not enough?”

“You could have martialed the whole of the world to our ways,” Poseidon says. His voice is impossibly soft, the whisper of a rope on a sail. “It still would not have been enough.”

Percy dips his head to the earth, his eyes stinging. “And so the city is lost,” he murmurs. “And the gods alongside it.”

All those temples and shrines, the streets and churches, the ancient walls and the little alcoves, the city cats and crowded marketplace, all that history--lost, lost forever, swallowed up by the inexorable march of time.

“Lost?” Poseidon hums, rubbing at his chin. “I suppose, yes. I daresay, should you ever return to the city of Constantine, you shall find it a very different place from how you left it. Buildings shall have gone. Streets shall have been renamed. Even their beloved St. Sophia shall become unrecognizable. Such things are static, and easily taken by prideful men who reanimate corpses in order to demonstrate their own sick sense of superiority.” He speaks with such authority, such sureness, it cuts deep at the heart of Percy, that even one of the city’s protectors could cast it aside so easily. 

“And yet,” he goes on, “are there not still people within those walls? Are there not men and women, at this very moment, who will slowly come to call it their home? Who will learn to love the street corners and the smell of spice markets, and the way the sun rises over the seven hills?”

Percy tilts his gaze up towards his father.

“There are many thousands of people to come who shall make their homes within the ancient walls--more than you could possibly imagine,” Poseidon says. “The city shall not die, but endure; perhaps not in the way that you remembered it, but endure nonetheless. Countless souls will come to live, love, and die in the city of _Byzantion_ , in the footsteps of all who have come before them. And as for the gods, my boy,” and then he grins, roguish and knowing, as though he is privy to a humor which no one else can tell, “think you so little of us? Though we may no longer haunt the dome of St. Sophia, we are by no means gone.”

Despite himself, he gasps lightly, filling his lungs with air and with hope. “Truly?”

His father nods. “ _Olympos_ , this thing that they shall come to call the flame of the West: it still lives, somewhere in this world, and it can still be found, by those brave enough to seek it out.” 

Standing, Poseidon rises from his crouch as a tidal wave, a fluid column of grace and strength, and turns to the sea, stepping forward. Before his very eyes, the years seem to fall from his countenance, his shoulders pulling back, shedding the pain and sorrow of a thousand years until he looks out onto the sea with nothing but unbridled wonder, sheer curiosity, unfettered joy.

Was this how he was before the dawn of mankind, Percy wonders, when the world was new?

Percy joins his father again on the edge of the beach, that liminal place between land and sea, night and day, life and death, dream and wakefulness.

“Do you know why the gods have children?” his father asks. Percy shakes his head. “It is so that they can do the things that we cannot. Immortal we are, yes, yet not omnipotent, nor all-powerful. There are restraints on our hearts, chains around our hands, even as we ourselves so desperately desire it to be otherwise--and so we sire heroes, to undertake the mightiest and noblest of quests, to bring about the changes we wish we could do ourselves. Yet there is another reason, one far greater and more powerful to my mind.”

He lifts his face to the night sky, gazing into the blackness between the pinpricks of light.

“Try as we may, nothing lasts forever in this world--no man, nor empire, nor thought. Not even the gods. One day, we, too, shall fade from the memory of man, and the last traces of us shall only be found in the ink of the poets--and in you.” Turning to Percy, then, he puts a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “You, Perseus. You carry me within you, as surely as you carry the power of the sea itself. You and your children, and your children’s children, they shall carry the echoes of us into eternity: proof of our very existence. What is it your wife likes to say? Ah, yes,” he says, eyes twinkling. “‘Something permanent,’ I believe.”

Percy flushes. He was not aware that his father knew about that particular development.

Night has fallen in the dreamlike wilderness. The stars wheel overhead, thousands of them, in shapes and stories more vast and complex than Percy can make sense of, even as the fog of morning begins to set in.

“Oh, my son,” says his father, faintly, as if from very far away, “it seems our time has ended. Soon the dawn shall break, and so I must go now.”

Caught in that soft place between wakefulness and sleep, Percy reaches out his hand, suddenly so full of fear. He has so many more questions. He has so much more to know. “Wait--” he pleads, “Father--” 

“If you should like,” he says, “you may seek me out in the city of old soldiers. Even so, I do not think we shall see each other again.”

The city of--“Where are you going?” he cries.

“When you see your mother again,” Poseidon says, smiling, “do give her all my love.” The lord of the sea then raises his hand, a final salute. “Know that whatever else you do in this life, it has been an honor to be your father. Hail, Perseus, prince of the _Diolkos_ , hero of Olympus. Hail, and farewell.”

“Father!” Percy begs. “Please!”

The mist covers him in totality, swallowing him up like the stone of the Erechtheion, stealing him back out to sea, leaving Percy alone on the cold, dark beach.

He awoke to the cold, dark bedroom of the manor on Lake Malӓren. Annabeth had already vacated the marriage bed.

It was all very well, for there was no way Percy could hide from her the tears as they fell onto his cheeks. 

***

Winter persisted, its grip on the land fierce and unyielding, and the festival season came to an end--not that Percy could tell, cooped up in the manor as he was. For what purpose was there to go outside? The sun did not shine in the accursed North, it seemed, a heady dream for those who had never known its warmth and splendor. 

He was aware, distantly, that something was wrong with the state of his emotions. This constant, endless disinterest and apathy, it was not like him. Food did not satisfy, rest did not soothe him, nor company chase away his grey, drab feelings. One night, Annabeth had even invited him to accompany her on a midnight excursion; the moon had been dark, she had said, and the stars very beautiful. But he had declined, turning over in his--their--bed, and attempting, in vain, to find some kind of unconsciousness.

Tonight, during the evening meal, as he pushed his food around his plate without ingesting a single bite, listening to the rest of the household prattle on about whatever the intriguing developments of the little town were, he felt it particularly strongly. The evening wore on, and all Percy could manage to stomach was a slice of bread and a little bit of fish. By his calendar, they were well into the Lenten season, and by rights should not have had such a spread before them; then again, none who ate at this table were remotely interested in a fast for a faith they did not follow, so he supposed he should be grateful that they were not obliging him to eat only bread and salt for six long, cold weeks.

His apathy must have been quite apparent, for he saw Annabeth sneaking glances towards him all during the meal.

At last, his wife was finally paying attention to him, and he could not even enjoy it.

Eventually, the noble household departed to their various evening activities, whether it be reading, writing, swordplay, what-have-you, until only Percy and Annabeth remained. Still she looked queerly on him, worry creasing her brow in that way that he remembered thinking was beyond adorable. Tonight, it barely even crossed his mind.

“Percy,” said his wife.

He grunted in response. 

“You should have some more fish.”

He shrugged, pushing his meal away. “I am not hungry.”

“You have barely eaten of late,” she argued.

Be that as it may, it did not change anything, so he stayed silent.

Annabeth sighed.

More often than not, their conversations would end in an awkward, stilted silence. It was as if, during those months that they traveled together, they had spoken every possible word to each other that could be said, and now there was nothing left for them to discuss. They awoke, ate their meals, went to sleep as husband and wife, but there was no affection between them, nor friendship, nor even the bitter words of their famed, legendary rivalry. There was, plainly put, no feeling to be found. She was trying, he recognized, trying her very hardest to give him space and patience, but unfortunately for her, he had nothing left to give in return. He had nothing left at all.

Annabeth took a draught of her wine. “I was wondering,” she asked, cautious, “have you had any odd dreams recently?”

Percy glanced up from the table. 

She did not look at him, but swirled her drink around in her glass, her brow furrowed. “No,” he said. “Not recently.”

It had been several weeks since he had dreamed at all. After his last one, he had preferred to keep it that way. 

She nodded, lips pursed. “I only ask because I--well, I have.”

“You know as well as I that our dreams are stranger than most,” he said, turning back to his half-eaten food. “I would not dwell on it too deeply.”

“But it was not just a dream, I am sure. I am confident that I had a vision.” Setting her glass down, her tone turned pointed, urgent. “I had been transported to the Acropolis--not as we had seen it, but in its prime, every temple perfectly restored, the pride of Athens, and there I saw my mother. We even spoke for a time.”

Against his better judgement, he looked back up at her. Some details were too similar to write off entirely.

“She spoke of many things, but at the end, she told me that, if I were to ever seek her out again, then I could find her in the city of--”

“The city of old soldiers,” Percy murmured.

Taken aback, she blinked, her words momentarily lost. “Yes,” she said. “Precisely. How did you know?”

Percy closed his eyes against her shock. He did not like to think about that night, nor his frightening dream. “Because my father told me much the same.”

“Lord Poseidon spoke to you?” Annabeth gaped, a faint tinge of indignation coloring her features. “Why did you not tell me?”

Percy swallowed once, but he decided that he had one thing to hide from his wife, and one thing only. It need not be this one. “Because all I did was weep as I begged him not to leave me,” Percy said, flatly, “and that was not an experience I wished to relive.” 

So much for all his heroics. Inside, it seemed he was still the same child he had always been, full of a deep, desperate longing for a distant father.

“I have never heard of this place before, this city,” he said, eager to shift her thoughts from her piss-poor husband. “Have you?”

Annabeth pursed her lips, not at all fooled by his tactics, but she relented anyway. “Sadly not,” she replied, slumping in her seat. “Old soldiers can be found in every city in the world; to find one particular city… it seems almost impossible.”

“Perhaps the gods meant it to be impossible.” It was not an idea he wished to entertain, but he felt that it had to be said. “Perhaps they wish to remain unfound.”

Despondent, she laid her head on her hand, indelicate, unladylike. “Much as I am loath to admit it,” she said, “you may be correct. If that is the case, and the gods have made themselves impossible to find, then…” 

Then, nothing. She trailed off, out of words, out of ideas, out of hope.

That, more than anything else, had proven just how far they had fallen. The Annabeth whom he had dragged from Constantinople would never have said anything of the sort, would never have given up on a quest so easily. But they were drained now, sad and broken in ways they did not realize they could be.

Silence fell between them, thick, heavy, a suffocating fog.

Then, a thought occurred to him. 

“During the last crusade,” he began, slowly, knowing that this was a sore topic for her, but also giving himself time to piece together his logic, “the Latins stole several treasures of the city for themselves, yes? Some statues, gold treasures, and the like?”

She grunted her assent.

“Where did they take them?”

So exhausted, Annabeth did not even scowl as she spoke. “Your precious Venetians carried them off to their home, in _Enetoi_.”

Thoughts whirled inside of his head, a typhoon of barely-heard words and half-cocked theories. “My father, and Alejandro, they--they said that the gods always accompanied their believers,” said Percy. “If the spoils of Constantinople are in Venice, then perhaps that is where the people fled to after the siege--”

“And if the people are there,” said Annabeth, sitting up, fire in her eyes, “then perhaps the gods are as well.”

“Exactly,” he breathed.

They stared at each other, the same idea springing to life before their very eyes. 

It was not much of a theory. There was no way to confirm it, halfway around the world, and the journey South would doubtless be just as harrowing as the journey North--if not more so.

But it was something, at the very least. Solid and tangible, something to which he could cling with both hands.

And it made his next steps so much easier.

“By your leave, then,” he said, standing from his seat, “I should like to return to the middle sea, and to seek my fortune in Venice.”

As though she had been struck, she flinched back, eyes wide. “What?”

“You and your family have been most kind and hospitable, but you know as well as I that I do not belong. I cannot learn this slippery northern tongue of yours, nor can I support you financially. But more than this, wherever it is that I end up in this world, a larger part of me will always feel the call towards the lands of our ancestors.” Of course, his most compelling reasons to leave, he could not share. If she truly wished to be his wife, then he would forget the gods entirely, and would live out the rest of his days here in Svealand, amongst the _Aesir_ \--yet he knew that she did not want that life for herself. He had allowed her to play that part on their wedding night, even when she clearly had not been of her right mind, and for that alone, the only proper thing to do would be to exile himself from this land, from her smile, from all memory of her for dishonoring her so, and the twisted pleasure he took in the act.

Wordlessly, she gaped up at him, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form sentences. “But--I--”

“But I want you to know, I have not regretted a single moment of the adventures we shared.” He bowed to her, in the fashion of the court of Constantinople, avoiding her gaze so he could not tempt himself any further to stay. “It was an honor, my lady, to accompany you home.”

He turned, and began out of the dining hall. 

From behind, he heard her stand as well.

“I understand you had limited examples of good husbands growing up, Perseus,” she nearly hissed, the use of his full name an unexpected knife in his chest. “But allow me to be blunt: abandoning your wife a few months after marriage is not generally considered desirable in a husband, even if you warn her beforehand.”

He stopped and turned, frowning at her, too stunned to be angry. “Abandon you? You and I both know you will thrive without a forced partner. You are just like my mother in this way; she, too, had to marry a man for the air of respectability, but she only truly blossomed after she was free of him.”

“You--” She thrust her hands down on the table, a sharp, angry sound. “Then I shall come with you!”

“It took us the better part of four months to bring you here,” Percy said, sternly. “Four months and gods only know how many miles. I have no desire to tear you away from your family again, not when you are clearly so happy here.”

She gazed at him, grey eyes full of an unreadable emotion. “And when you are not,” she quietly confirmed. 

What was the use of being dishonest when he was sure his dissatisfaction was written so plainly on his face? “No. No, I am not happy here.”

For a brief, brief, moment, she looked as though she had been stabbed in the back, a terrible, tortured concoction of shock, pain, and disbelief. Percy had only ever seen that look on her face once before, in a dream; he had once borne magical witness as Lukas had forced her to carry the dome of the sky in his stead through the use of trickery. To have such a look directed now at him nearly shattered his resolve. It certainly broke his heart. 

Clenching her fists, grinding her teeth, something clearly warred inside of her as she struggled to keep her words in her mouth. No doubt she was crafting an insulting tirade worthy of the greatest poets, something suitably cutting aimed at his manhood or his courage, or lack thereof. 

But squaring her jaw, she relaxed her hands, and swallowed her anger. “That you think so lowly of yourself, Percy, it pains me in ways I cannot describe.” Coming to some sort of decision, she squared her shoulders as well, drawing herself up to meet his gaze. “As your friend, I must protest at such slander of your character.”

He laughed, a little hollow. “As your friend, I thank you.” If only she knew just how deep the rot inside of him went.

“And as your wife,” she went on, “I will not allow you leave without me.”

He sighed, unwilling to have this argument again. “Annabeth--”

“No,” she interrupted. “I know all too well what you have given up by coming here. I cannot make amends for your misery the last few months, but I can move forward with you, wherever it is that we go.”

“What of your father?” he asked. “And your brothers? What of Magnus and Alejandro?”

“I love my family, dearly,” she said, “and I am so grateful that I have been able to spend this time with them. I never imagined I would be able to have this chance, and I thank you for making it so--yet I, too, am a _Hellena_. Do you not think that I also long for the warmer climes and familiar coasts of Sigeion and Constantinople? Do you not think that I also wish to see our friends again, to see my mother again?” Emboldened, she stepped towards him, rounding her edge of the table to stand before him. “As you once did for me, let me now return the favor. I shall accompany you to Venice, and there we will begin our search for the soul of Olympus.”

Percy was… he was speechless. He was aware he looked like a fool, his mouth hanging open, blinking stupidly. 

As though she had only now just realized the boldness of her claim, she faltered somewhat, heat rushing to her face. “And I must again repeat, _phykios_ , that abandoned women do not usually fare well in polite society. I would prefer to stay with you, if… if you would have me.”

He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. How could she wish to stay with him, after all that he had done to her? But his weak heart could not resist her siren call; to return home with Annabeth at his side was nothing short of a dream.

“To Venice, then?” he asked, quiet, full of hope.

“To Venice,” she agreed. “And there, I pray, may we find what we seek.”

***

They set out from Birka on a cold, foggy morning.

In the weeks that had passed, Annabeth had successfully sold her inheritance to her cousin in exchange for monetary value. When Percy saw how much her lands had been worth, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. She had somewhat understated their value to him at first, claiming it was no more than a few measly acres, when, in fact, she had been in possession of two huge tracts of land, exchanged for more money than Percy had imagined could be possible. 

Usually, he did not mind the matter and circumstances of his birth, his lowly station, but he allowed himself, just this once, to be passively jealous of the aristocracy, even as he, essentially, entered that class with the value of his wife’s inheritance. The whole thing made his head hurt, just a little. 

In any case, Fredrik had arranged for a boatman to see them off once more to Stadsholmen, where they would board a much nicer ship than the one they had stolen which would take them South, to a city called _Danzig_. From there, they would travel in a westerly direction, so that they circumvented the religious struggles which had broken out in that area. Annabeth, grudgingly, even admitted that Percy’s history with the Legion might even prove useful for navigation, scowling so preciously that Percy’s heart felt three times lighter. 

Fredrik had come to see them off, along with Alejandro and Magnus. A far, far cry from the first days of their previous journey, Fredrik had loaded them down with food and other supplies, fine, warm clothes, and of course, their new fortune, in both coins and official documents. There was one other new addition as well, gifted to them by Magnus and his spouse. “It was a traditional wedding gift among the Norsemen,” Alejandro promised them. “She will bring you luck.”

“She” turned out to be a small, white kitten, with large blue eyes and grey ears. She had taken one look at Percy, sniffed his hand, then immediately made herself at home in the folds of his winter cloak, purring softly. 

Oh, even he could not resist the lure of a small cat. He kissed its head, scratching it behind the ears. Annabeth smiled at him, full of an emotion which he could not name, but could only describe as being soft, somehow, full of affection that just transcended the boundaries of simple friendship. 

And then all at once, their things had been loaded onto the little boat, and they were ready to begin their journey. First, Stadsholmen; then, the South and the ancient lands. 

He could not deny that the very thought of Italy, of its warm summers and green seas, made him feel more alive than he had in months. 

“Percy,” Annabeth said, “would you permit me to linger a moment longer?”

“Of course.” He had noted her furtive glances towards her father, and assumed that she wished to give him a proper farewell. “I shall await you on the boat.”

So that he would not be left alone with a boatman who did not speak his language, Alejandro volunteered to walk him to the dock, allowing Fredrik, Magnus, and Annabeth to have their solemn goodbyes. “Despite your sour attitude, please know that we shall all miss you terribly,” he said, his mismatched eyes dancing. “Your arrival was, by far, the single most entertaining thing that has happened to this little village in years.”

“Does this include your own misadventures with Loki as he attempted to bring about _Ragnarok_?” 

“Includes and exceeds, my friend.” Perhaps with a little impropriety, Alejandro kissed him on both cheeks, embracing him as a friend and brother. “Do watch out for my cousin, won’t you?”

“She will watch out for me, of that you can be certain.”

As he went to speak with the boatman, Percy cast his gaze to Annabeth and her father, further from the shore. They spoke very quickly, hushed words in Swedish traveling on the breeze towards him, syllables he could neither parse nor comprehend. He observed as Fredrik brought his hands to his mouth, an expression of shock and wonder, then embraced his daughter, tucking her head into his shoulder. He watched as Annabeth allowed herself to melt into his embrace, standing on her toes to reach him. 

That she had willingly chosen to give all this up for him… it made him feel as though he could do anything, take on any quest. She had but to ask him.

“You are very far gone for your lady, aren’t you?” he heard Alejandro ask from behind him.

Percy nodded, for that was the beginning and end of it all, that he loved her so desperately, that he was content to let it go unreturned, as long as she deigned to keep him by her side. To deny it would be a bald-faced lie, and one easily overturned.

He chuckled. “She is fortunate to have you, then.”

“On the contrary,” said Percy. “I am fortunate to have her.” After all, this amazing woman was willing to leave her family and journey with him into some great unknown. How many men could claim such an honor?

Finally, her father brought Annabeth to shore, visibly holding back his tears. “Shall we, then?” asked his wife, shoulders squared and eyes straight ahead. 

Percy held out his hand, and she took it, using it for balance as she stepped onto the craft. “We shall.”

A final word to his employer in Swedish, then the boatman pushed off from the dock. “Farewell!” called Alejandro, waving from the shore. “Safe travels!”

It was not long before they were swallowed up by the morning fog, the house on the hill disappearing into the mist, like a dream come first light. 

Beside him, Annabeth yawned. “I apologize,” she said. “I had not slept well last night. Would you mind terribly if I took a brief rest?”

“Not at all. Here,” said Percy, setting the cat down on a parcel of Annabeth’s clothes. “You may use me as your pillow, if you wish.”

Grateful, she rested her head on his shoulder, nearly cuddling into his side just as enthusiastically as the cat had. “If you please, wake me when we arrive in Stadsholmen.”

“Of course, for who else shall translate for me?”

She huffed a laugh through her nose, once, sharp and short. Then, trapped between the bark of the boat and the weight of her body, Percy was content to simply bask in the feeling of her shoulder against his chest, her arms cradling her stomach for warmth, even after he wrapped his cloak around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we are BACK on the road! this is my favorite part of the story for Reasons, and bc is it really a sasha fic w/o a big, dramatic monologue pontificating on some bullshit?
> 
> chapter glossary:  
> • Dardania: Roman province in the central Balkans  
> • Sevilla/Hispalis/Isbiliyah: various names for Seville, in Spain (Spanish, Latin, and Arabic, respectively)  
> • Bolvasmidr: epithet for Loki  
> • Magian/Varangian/Vikinga: the Vikings, obvi  
> • Asphaleios, Epoptes: more Poseidon epithets  
> • Diolkos: the strip of land at the Isthmus of Corinth where sailors would portage their ships across  
> • Enetoi: Venice  
> • Danzig: Gdansk


	10. Chapter 10

His wife had taken ill, a statement that was simultaneously the best and worst one Percy had ever thought up in his short, eventful life. It was the best, because of the simple fact that Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter was his wife. At night they shared a bed, and during the day they shared each other’s company. Though she did not love him, and had only married him in a bid to, rather ironically, retain her freedom, she wished for him to stay at her side, and he was blessed with her presence in turn. 

Yet it was also the worst, because Annabeth, the love of his life, had taken ill. 

He worried for her constantly; her pain was his pain, and the thought of something happening to her was simply unthinkable. Consumed with anxiety, he did what he always had done since they had been children, and he was overwhelmed by the magnitude of his own feelings. When he found her throwing up over the side of the boat for the fourth morning in a row, he swallowed his fears, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“The sea never used to affect you this strongly.” Percy teased, even as he rubbed at her back. “What would all the other shieldmaidens say if they could see you now?”

She only groaned in response. He offered his handkerchief as she made to whip her mouth on her cloak. Once she was cleaned, she exhaled, leaning against him. 

“And to think, your father told me your family was descended from an Aesir sea god,” Percy continued, offering his own sea strength to steady her. 

“Vanir,” Annabeth said. “We are descended from a Vanir god, who in turn was descended from a sea god.” Percy only had the vaguest idea of what that meant, based on Alejandra’s stories, but he so loved to hear her correcting him once more, even when she was feeling poorly, for it meant she was still herself.

“Regardless, the sea flows through your veins, Anja,” he jested, tone light. Many of these northern words felt odd in his mouth, but he loved to speak her given name. “What do you have to say for yourself?” 

“That neither Frey nor Njord were gods of motherhood,” she moaned.

His thoughts stuttering, he frowned at her for several long seconds. “Motherhood? What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Everything, _phykios.”_ She groaned, her head resting on his shoulder, and her hand going to her stomach. 

Like fog dissolving in the morning sun, the meaning came to him, quickly and suddenly. But surely it could not be so; they’d only laid together once.

Gently, terrifyingly, he placed his hand on top of hers, over her belly. He could not sense a difference through her clothes. “You are pregnant?” Percy whispered. He held his breath, waiting for her answer. 

“Yes.” 

Percy felt tears prick his eyes. Were he less in control of his feelings, he would have taken her by the hand, lifted her up, and spun her around in elation. “You are with child?” 

“I am,” she confirmed. Pulling back from him a bit, she looked at him, eyes keen and discerning. “Do you mind?” Her words were mild, yet in her tone, he could sense just the barest hint of trepidation, of fear of disapproval.

“Mind!” He laughed, a few of his tears escaping. “Of course not!” 

Energy surging through his limbs, he nearly stood up and began to dance. Annabeth, his wife, his truest companion from his earliest days, pregnant with his child! They were to have a family together! How could he not be so elated, when this was every dream of his come true? 

But then, he then realized, while children had been his most secret desire, it had not, necessarily, been hers. It had not even been the point of their marriage. Annabeth had married him for freedom from; to be trapped in motherhood, tied down with a child, may have been the very thing she hoped to avoid. “Are,” he swallowed, suddenly afraid, “are you very displeased?”

“Displeased? I…” She held his gaze for a long moment, looking on him with wide, uncertain eyes, and then shook her head. “No. As long as you are not unhappy, then neither am I.”

“I am happy,” he said quickly. “I am very, very happy. Ever since dear, sweet Esther was born, I always imagined myself to be a father one day. I simply thought it would be impossible.” Demigod lives, particularly those of his more immediate, more powerful peers, were short and bright and violent--to say nothing of his financial situation. As well, there was that fact that he had had a difficult time dreaming of children who had not been mothered by Annabeth. 

“So you are not upset,” she asked again, seeking confirmation. 

“I am most certainly not upset,” he promised her. 

He was ecstatic. His whole self felt lighter, happier, better than it had in years, and not just since the fall of their city, but several years before that, at least. Annabeth, his wife, his great love, building a family with him… it had been a dream far too fragile to speak of. And now it had come true.

Her unsure expression, however, caused him to temper his outward reflection. Just as he opened his mouth to question if she required anything, she once again leaned over the edge of the boat, and vomited into the sea below. 

“There, there,” he said, rubbing at her back, making sure to keep her cloak and dress, billowing in the wind, out of the way so it would not get dirty. “Come, sit.” he said, after she had caught her breath, submitting to his guiding her to a bench. “Can I get you anything?”

She waved off his offer, eyes closed against the salt spray. “These are normal parts of pregnancy, I am given to understand. When I spoke with the cook at my cousin’s house, her warnings made me fear it would be worse than it has been.” 

His jaw dropped. “You knew before we left your family?” 

She glanced at him, a little scathing. “A woman knows these things, Percy.” 

Of that, he had no doubt--but that was not the issue here. “It cannot be safe for you to travel like this.” His earlier fear gripped him, curling cold fingers around his heart. He looked out at the sea around them, the breadth of his father’s domain now transformed into a dark, terrible labyrinth, where dangers lurked about every corner. “You should not have left your cousin’s house.” 

“You were going to leave me there,” she accused. 

“No, I--” he began to argue, before cutting himself off. She was correct, of course, though not for the reasons she assumed, and sadly, there was no good manner in which he could explain why, not without divulging all the secrets of his heart, and causing her more discomfort. “I wanted--I want you to have as happy and comfortable and challenging a life as possible. I had thought you would find that among your family and the politics of the Kalmar Union, but, I swear, if you had told me of the baby, I would have chosen differently.” 

Happily he would have tolerated the strange food and horrid climates of Svealand forever for her sake, for his family’s sake. He thought once again of the parade of little girls dressed as Saint Lucy, then imagined his own daughter, with Annabeth’s blonde curls and grey eyes, joining it. His heart skipped a beat in his chest.

“We are not so far from your family, and a long way off from Italy,” he said. It would be a simple enough task for him--he did not even have to inform the captain. “We can still turn back, so you might have your confinement and give birth in all comfort.” Her father and Magnus would want nothing more than to take care of her in her condition, and she would far more likely welcome their concern than his. 

“We are going to Italy,” she said, mouth set. 

“But if you are unwell--” 

“I am fine,” she snapped. “We are going to Italy, and there we shall have our child. Does that thought upset you?” 

So caught off guard by her tone, he almost missed the most delightful and pleasing combination of words to ever exist: _our child_. His and Annabeth’s child. The most precious gift he had ever received, the dream of a lifetime. 

“It does not,” he said, though he could not entirely quiet his internal concern. “If it is what you wish-- what you truly wish--then we shall continue on to Venice.” 

They held each other’s gazes for a moment longer, imparting such thoughts and feelings as neither of them could understand. Then she smiled, beautiful, yet somehow sad. “Surely,” she said, “you wish to raise your child on the shores of your father’s sea.” 

She knew him far too well, for he could not deny the appeal. 

Then, all of a sudden, he was gripped by an overwhelming fear: Annabeth was _with child_. Even the most formidable fighter could only do so much while burdened with carrying another life. He remembered how his mother, heavy with little Esther, struggled to walk to and from the local market. What if they should come across another band of cruel bandits? What if she should hurt herself on the road to Italy, or if Percy should find himself injured or ill, unable to help her or protect her? 

Seemingly from nowhere, a small bundle of white fur appeared at their feet, and the little cat jumped up beside them, giving a perfunctory sniff to the fabric of Annabeth’s dress before climbing on top of her, pressing her paws back and forth on her thigh the way Percy’s mother used to prepare her bread. Satisfied, then, she walked in a circle before settling down for her midmorning nap, tucking her paws beneath her body.

Admittedly, Percy had been somewhat skeptical of the cat, which Annabeth had taken to calling “Freya.” He liked animals, cats as well as dogs equally, and cats did seem to take a special liking to him. He remembered fondly the many cats of Constantinople following him after a hard day’s work, looking up with expectant eyes as they sweetly begged for part of his daily catch, then absconded with his discards into the dark city alleyways. So while he did not mind Freya’s presence, she seemed to distinctly prefer his wife, sticking to Annabeth’s side like a burr on cloth, laying ownership to her lap, sometimes hissing at strange people who got too close.

Percy could sympathize, on several points.

From Danzig, then, he decided, they would set out on the _Via Imperii_. Were it yet summer, perhaps they could have sailed the whole way to Venice, but he feared the might of spring storms, and would not risk her life, nor their child’s, for something as intangible as expediency. He remembered well, too, how their voyage upriver had sapped him of his strength until he had been unable to do naught but sleep; to exert himself to exhaustion on the open sea, miles away from any shore or safe harbor, could prove even more disastrous. 

Immediately, Annabeth’s hands descended on the cat, scratching the underside of her chin with one while the other stroked the length of her back, and Freya purred, loud enough Percy could hear it even over the crashing waves, blinking her eyes sleepily back up at her. His wife smiled, quite taken with their furry companion.

There was so much more at stake now, he realized. Not just his own health, nor hers, but the health and safety of the life they had made together. In his heart, he swore on a river whose name had once struck fear into the hearts of men and gods alike, he would work every day to prove himself worthy of this woman who made such sacrifices for his sake. 

Aloud, he merely said, “Thank you.” Two words which could not encompass all the gratitude he held for her. Were he able to pay her back its weight in gold, she would be the richest woman in the world.

Annabeth cast him a fond, if tired, look, her countenance still vaguely green. “Do not thank me yet,” she said. “I am told that it gets much, much worse.”

“I look forward to it,” Percy replied, turning his face into the sun.

***

He had hoped that Annabeth’s sickness would lessen once they returned to dry land. But after three days traveling through _Pomerania_ , she was still sick in the mornings.

“Your child preferred the sea, methinks.” Annabeth said as Percy passed her water. She smiled her thanks and drank deeply. “But it could be much worse, I suppose. I’ve heard it said that many people feel the sickness all day, for weeks. Mine is, at the very least, limited to the earliest morning hours--and you have been most accommodating.” 

With their not inconsiderable fortune, Percy had managed to procure for them a cart and a horse, so that they could keep up a lively pace while allowing Annabeth to rest as much as she required. “I have not been accommodating,” Percy protested. “You are with child.” _My child_ , he did not say, but thought it, giddily. “It is the very least that I could do.” 

“Well, regardless,” she said, “it is very appreciated.” Then she groaned, dropping her head forward. 

“What is it?” he asked, reaching out a hand to steady her. 

“Have we any more food? I am ravenous.” 

They did, because Percy wished to spare no expense on his wife and hopeful daughter. And besides, it was Annabeth’s money, they should spend as much on her comfort as needed. They’d left the inn early in the morning, but he had gotten them some bread and hard cheese before they had begun the journey. “Here, have the rest,” he said, handing them to her.

But she pushed the parcel away. “No, no, have we anything else?”

He did not, but he would not let himself fall into a panic. “When we arrive in _Stettin_ ,” he promised, “I shall purchase whatever it is you desire. Tell me, if there were anything in the world that you could have, what would it be?”

Whatever she needed, he would do his best to provide: that was the vow he had taken, and this was merely his first challenge. 

Thoughtful, she looked towards the clouds, her lip between her teeth. 

“...Olives,” she said. “I would be very happy for some olives.”

Percy laughed. Of course. Athena’s proclivity for the fruit was renowned. “Then olives it is, my lady.”

It was a simple enough task, on the surface, to procure some olives for his pregnant wife. As a child living on the shores of the great Roman lake, olives had been plentiful and ubiquitous; at the _agoge_ , the children of Demeter and Athena had cultivated a small grove of olive trees, partially for their own use, but also to sell at market. Though there had been neither olives nor olive oil in Svealand, as it was far too expensive to import from so far South, Percy assumed that he would be able to locate some here on the continent. Stettin was the Northernmost city on the _Via Imperii_ , and surely some of the stuff must have wound its way through the lands controlled by the Legion.

Day after day, town after town, any time they passed through a settlement, they stopped at market so that Annabeth could rest, and Percy could scour the stalls and alleys for olives--and day after day, town after town, he found none. Not a single hamlet between Danzig and Stettin carried the _malakes_ fruit. Every day he would return to his wife empty handed, and every day she would smile at him, her eyes shining, and thanked him for trying.

Her cravings continued. He could sense it, the way he could sense a storm, her mood souring as the days dragged on. 

They stayed an extra night in Stettin to let the horses rest. It was a Monday, the start of a fresh, new week, the day the merchants and farmers brought in their weekly produce. Surely, Percy thought, perhaps foolishly, surely a market of such a large city would have even a small bottle of olive oil? What civilized city did not have a healthy supply of the stuff? Rome had once spanned nearly the entire continent; the well worn roads were proof of it. Surely, they had left some sort of culinary mark.

Apparently, he was a fool. The only oil to be found was made from pumpkin seeds--a favorite of some of the members of the Legion. He knew it to be bland, tasteless, and not at all fit for his wife. As for the olives, the merchants all looked at him as though he had grown a second head, those who understood a little Italian anyway, for those who could not merely stared at him as he fumbled his way through the few Frankish words which he knew. 

He felt oddly numb, returning to their accommodations empty-handed. Would she be disappointed? Would she regret leaving the comfort and security of Svealand, where all her needs had been provided for? 

Yet she had merely shrugged, brushing her hair with the comb that she had pilfered from Alejandra. “It is no great hardship,” she said, a little distantly, as all her attention was focused on the task in her hands. “I shall survive without it.”

On their bed, Freya the cat yawned, very sweetly, before readjusting her position, standing up and walking in a circle, then settling down and returning to her slumber.

“Still,” said Percy, “I recall the many trials and tribulations which my mother endured before she had borne my sister; if there is something which I can do to ease your burden at all, I should very much like to do so.”

Sighing sharply through her nose, Percy tensed, fearful that she would refuse him outright out of pride, only for him to relax as she merely tugged her comb through a particularly stubborn knot of hair. His fingers twitched in the folds of his clothes, his very nerve endings alight with the mere thought of feeling the soft, golden strands for themselves. He felt, somewhat worryingly, as though he had begun to develop a minor obsession with the feeling of her hair, every time it brushed up against his skin as she moved against him on the cart, or rolled over towards him in their shared bed. To watch her daily ritual, an act so tired and uneventful to her, yet one so captivating to him, with such eagerness and attention would have seemed, on any other man, to be the mark of ill-temperament and evil tidings. Percy, however, was able to content himself with merely looking.

“In truth,” she said, “it is not the olives themselves which I crave, though there is not much I would not do for such a treasure. Just as your child preferred the sea, I can only assume that my current propensity for salt is your doing as well.”

“Salt?”

“Salt,” she confirmed. “Any salty food will do, I think.”

“Salt,” he repeated, suddenly thoughtful. Salty foods were certainly in great supply here in the North; now a whole new world had been opened to him. Then--”You believe that I am the cause of this?” he asked, frowning.

Indelicate, she raised a brow at him. “Are you not? Why else would I have such a craving for saltwater?”

“I thought you wished for olives.”

“Olives?” She made a face. “I think not.”

Percy blinked, feeling as though he had missed a vital step in their conversation. “I beg your pardon?”

Huffing, she threw her comb down, evidently done with her grooming for the night. “Never you mind! I wish to retire.” She stood, undoing the various ties and laces of her dress, while Percy stared at her in slack-jawed awe and confusion. “Go and… cavort with a young man, if one should make himself available to you.” 

Then throwing back the covers of the bed, disturbing poor, sweet, Freya, who leapt to the floor, her ears turned back in displeasure, she climbed underneath them, turning away from Percy.

It was barely evening. The sun could still be seen from the window. 

“I… very well,” he said, carefully. “If it please you, I shall go and fetch us some food.”

“Do whatever you wish,” she replied, muffled by the sheets. “Good night.”

Feeling very much as though he had just summoned, and then subsequently banished, a hurricane, Percy retreated from their rented room, shutting the door as quickly and quietly as possible so as not to disturb his wife. 

That was… unusual. 

Not, the constant, shifting hunger pangs, mind; his mother had had similar, if perhaps less intense, culinary desires which could turn on a _lira_ at any given moment. In truth, there was much about pregnancy for which he had already been prepared, having assisted his mother in the arrival of his little sister. When a woman was suffering such emotional and mental torment, it was best not to argue with her, and to placate her as quickly and thoroughly as one could, something which Percy was more than happy to do. No, what was strange was her peculiar comment, her order for him to go and seek out the company of someone else--of another man. 

To abandon his wife for the pleasures of another was unthinkable, and not in the least because his spouse just so happened to be, in a bizarre twist of fate, the great love of his life. Again, he recalled how his mother would occasionally spit curses at her loving husband for the most minor of infractions, so the fact that Annabeth, who had tied herself to him in order to escape the pressures of an uncaring, unfamiliar political snare, who had, presumably, not gone into the arrangement expecting or even desiring of a child, and who, historically, had only barely tolerated his presence, was to be expected. 

That she had specified he should search for the company of another man was the odd detail in this situation.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him how he had not eaten since this morning, so consumed was he in the hunt for olives, and so he made his way downstairs to the ground floor of the inn, to purchase some dinner for himself--and for Annabeth also, who would almost certainly be ravenous when she awoke, and hopefully, in something of a happier mood. 

***

They had picked up a fellow traveler in the city of _Lipsi_ , who had warned them off continuing further down the _Via Imperii_. “Many wars,” he had said, “much fighting--it would not do for your lovely wife to be caught up in all of that.”

As much as Percy wished to protest, that Annabeth was more than capable of handling herself, even in such a state, she had been so fatigued as of late that he did not wish to risk her safety. Therefore, himself, Annabeth, and the traveler, an itinerant monk named Johann, turned West instead, along the _Via Regia_ . The detour would not put them too far off--once they reached the city of _Trever_ , they could then turn South, towards _Basler_ , and continue through the valley. 

Percy and Annabeth had come upon the man as he rested by the side of the road, his curiously shaven head something of a beacon in the dark, green forest. Though Annabeth had initially protested, Percy, being in possession of a horse cart, felt offering him assistance would have been, at least, the polite thing to do. Now they sat all three of them in the front of the cart, Percy in the center with Johann to his left, while Annabeth alternately dozed off, attended to her knitting, a blanket in the making, or stroked sweet little Freya, who had become ever more protective of her mistress’ growing belly.

He was an interesting man, this Johann, pleasant and good-natured. He had embarked on a cross-continental journey of his own, one which ranged from his hometown of _Cölln_ , all the way to the resting place of St. James in _Hispania_. “Fifteen hundred miles,” he said, ruefully, in perfect Italian, “and I am the poor fool who twists his ankle barely out of his own door.” 

“Lady _Fortuna_ must pass us all over some time,” said Percy. 

“On the contrary,” said the monk, “your presence is proof of her blessing.”

Perhaps it was his joviality, or perhaps it was the warm sun, beating down on them, wrapping Percy in comfort, but he was in a merry mood as well. “I would have thought you to say that all blessings came from the Lord.”

“And who is to say He did not send you to me, miserable thing that I am?” said Johann. “There is a story I heard once, of a man who found himself in a lake. A pious, devoted man, he had only the utmost, unwavering faith in our Lord, faith that He would deliver the man from the waters before he drowned. Well, by and by, a man comes up to him in a canoe. ‘Sir,’ says the sailor to the man, ‘there is space in my vessel here; climb aboard, and I shall bring you to land.’ But the man refuses, saying, ‘I have faith in the Lord. He shall save me.’ And the sailor goes on. Not long after, another man comes up to him, in yet another canoe. ‘Sir,’ says the second sailor, ‘I have come to rescue you, for the waters are bitter cold, and my wife has a warm fire and a dry bed reserved for your use.’ But once again, the man refuses, saying, ‘I shall remain, for the Lord shall see me through.’ Well,” Johann shrugged, the corners of his lips tugging in a smile, “predictably, this poor, pious man drowns after some time. A person of deepest faith, he arrives at the gates of Heaven, whereupon he is given an interview with our Lord Christ, and he asks, ‘my God, my God, I had unwavering faith in your infinite mercy. Why did you not deliver me from the watery depths?’” 

Clearly a practiced storyteller, he paused, a silence which begged to be filled by his audience. “And?” asked Percy. “What did he say?”

“At this question, our Lord Christ shakes his head, and says to the man, ‘My child, there was not much more that I could have done, for you refused the two boats which I sent to you.’”

Percy couldn’t help it--he laughed. “I daresay,” he said, “I have never met a man of the cloth so jovial as you.”

“That is what sunlight does to a man,” said Johann, full of good humor. “My brothers may think they have the better of it, sheltered from wind and rain with their books, but to cage me within four walls was anathema to my entire being, for I have always had a singular talent for making things grow. Did not all of creation begin in a garden? Thus, the gardener is a blessed man indeed.”

“Indeed,” he chuckled, a little uneasily. That Percy and Annabeth were not, strictly speaking, devotees of the trinity, and did not quite understand the finer details of the faith, had not quite come up in conversation yet. He sincerely hoped Johann would not ask. 

“But you did not tell me your destination,” said the monk, looking on them both eagerly. “What calling of yours caused our two paths to intertwine?”

Percy glanced towards Annabeth, who had decided to ignore their sudden companion altogether, in favor of observing the trees as they passed. “My… wife and I are on our way to Venice.”

Such a simple phrase, “my wife,” yet Percy could not think of another combination of syllables which had ever given him nearly the same kind of joy. 

“Venice, eh? That is quite the journey. Are you on a pilgrimage as well?”

“Ah, no--well--” Though, he considered, were they not? They went to seek spiritual enlightenment of a sort in a far off land. Did that not count as a pilgrimage by any standard? Certainly not in the sense which the good monk was implying, yet nonetheless, it was indeed a pilgrimage. The only difference was that they were not at all certain their destination held the answers which they sought. “We are hoping to… find our fortune there.”

Johann looked him up and down, and then at Annabeth. “Your fortune?” He asked. “I must commend you, sir, for you do not look like you need another one.” 

Feeling the telltale flush in his cheeks, he glanced once again towards Annabeth, who, strangely, acted as though she hadn’t heard his comment. He was correct, of course, but Percy was not certain if he appreciated other men saying so--even a man of the cloth.

But the monk continued. “Venice is supposed to have one of the most magnificent cathedrals in all of Christendom: the _Chiesa d’Oro_. They say it is modeled on the great St. Sophia of Constantinople--of course, I have never seen it myself, so I cannot verify such a claim.”

Even the thought of St. Sophia, of her golden domes and radiant light, made Percy’s heart ache for home--a home to which he could never return. “St. Sophia was a masterpiece to behold,” said Percy, a little wistfully. “I am hard-pressed to imagine another temple quite as awe-inspiring.”

With a little thrill in his gaze, Johann leaned in, closer to Percy. “You have beheld the Church of the Holy Wisdom for yourself? Is it as beautiful as they say?”

“More than that, sir, there is no other place quite like it. To tell you truly,” he said, chuckling a little, “my wife and I both hail from Constantinople.”

For a moment, Annabeth looked up and over at him and their companion, narrowing her eyes, but then she just frowned and went back to her knitting. 

Johann frowned as well, though more confused than upset, unlike his wife. “From the city itself, you say?”

Percy nodded. 

“Then, if I may be so bold, how have you found yourself in these parts? Unless I am very much mistaken, one does not usually feel the need to travel to _Saxonia_ on one’s journey to Venice from the holy lands.”

“Not usually, no,” said Percy. “However, the two of us, we were…” He paused, uncertain of how much information he was willing to share with this virtual stranger. “I was stationed on the walls,” he said. “We fled the city just as the Ottomans broke the siege, then traveled North, to her cousin’s estates.”

“I see,” said the monk. “You were deep in the thick of it, then?”

The all-consuming flames and the blood-curdling screams of his memory, they faded more and more each day, as all battles did, for he was a soldier first and foremost, and war tended to blur together after a point. By contrast, sometimes he still awoke in a cold sweat, drumbeats in his ears as he relived the terror and panic of watching the gods flee the city in which they had dwelt for a thousand years, no more powerful than a crop of refugees. “Yes,” he said. “We were.”

Johann hummed, linking his hands together. “The loss of life is always a tragedy,” he said, “even that of a heretic. Alas, that the city of Constantine fell so far from grace that they had to be punished so!”

Percy shifted, uncomfortable. 

“Yet,” he went on, still in that same, blasted, affable tone, “even in the face of great sorrow, there is cause to celebrate, for the Lord saw fit to spare you and your wife, and see you to safe harbors, no?”

He glanced towards Annabeth, who continued at her weaving, seemingly unaware of the monk’s comments. “Well, I--”

“If you will permit me, sir, let me bless your wife and unborn child, so that he or she may grow strong and pious in the loving embrace of the Lord.” And he opened his hands, all set to begin his little ritual.

With a thought, Percy pulled their cart to a stop, suddenly, bracing an outstretched arm against Annabeth so she would not be knocked forward. Freya, jolted from her mid-morning nap, mewed, pitiful. “Percy,” said Annabeth, in their own tongue, “what--”

“This is where we part ways,” said Percy to the Christian man. “Disembark, and quickly.”

He sat, slack-jawed. “I beg your pardon?”

If Percy had been more in control of his emotions, then he may not have uttered his next words. However, later on, he found he did not regret them. “My wife and I are not interested in blessings from your trinity gods.”

“My--” he sputtered. “You--”

“I will not repeat myself--you are no longer welcome to travel with us.”

His pale skin flushed with anger, the monk chose not to argue with him, but did disembark, as though he could no longer bear their presence. “Heathen,” he hissed. “The Lord knows your heart, and for your lack of faith, He shall smite you down to the depths of the underworld.”

Possessed of a fury he did not know he could feel, Percy drew himself up to his full height, reaching deep within himself to the core of his being, the part of him which could summon typhoons, slay monsters, and cause the very earth beneath them to split--the part which could more than terrify a simple fool. “And there we shall be welcomed as heroes,” he said, “for we personally know the lord of the dead himself.”

White with terror, the monk touched his face and shoulders, chanting Latin beneath his breath. Leaving him to it, Percy snapped the reins on the horse, and they took off once more, leaving Johann in the dust. 

Annabeth, twisted around in her seat, peered back at the retreating figure of their one-time travelling companion. “Do not mistake my confusion for disappointment,” she said, “for I, too, am glad to be rid of him, though I must say, that was very suddenly done.”

Percy scoffed, twisting the reins between his fingers, something with which to ground himself. “Had I known what he would offer,” he nearly growled, “I would have expelled him sooner.”

Curious, she tilted her head. “What offer was so odious as to force him from your sight?”

Blinking, Percy turned towards her. As always, his heart raced at the sight of those grey eyes on him, though at this moment they were wide in innocent confusion. Percy frowned. He had thought she was a better listener than he, on most occasions. “His offer to bless us in the name of his lord.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that what he said?”

“Did you not hear him?”

“I did,” she huffed, annoyed. Again. She seemed often annoyed with him these days. “But as I cannot understand Italian, clearly I missed a few things.” 

She--”You--what?”

Lips pursed, heat rushed to her cheeks, though she did not let up on her steely stare. “Yes?”

“You cannot speak Italian?”

“I have just told you so.”

“But--” Percy sputtered. “But--how did you--how did you take orders from your commander?”

The Venetians and the Genoese had comprised most of the command posts on the wall and had not bothered to learn the local language for themselves. Knowledge of Italian, therefore, had been crucial to the defense of the city, something Annabeth would certainly have known.

“My commander was a fool and a drunkard,” she said, turning her nose up, “and perished one night after he fell off the wall.”

“Then… who--” But he stopped himself before he could finish his question, for there was only one reasonable answer. “You took command of your unit.”

“Obviously.”

“And none of your men took issue with a woman leading them into battle?”

Her stern gaze transformed into a glare, narrowed and piercing. “Not when it guaranteed them victory.”

For a moment, Percy could do nothing but stare right back, in disbelief and incredulity. She must have led her little cohort for months, the warrior woman of Constantinople, _Areia_ made flesh. No wonder the northern portion of the wall held for so long. 

Then, out of nowhere, he laughed.

“And what, pray tell, is so amusing?” his wife asked, lips thin, brow furrowed.

“Nothing, nothing,” he chortled. He could not say from where such delight had come, nor why it had suddenly taken him over thus. Perhaps it was simply the knowledge that, no matter how much time had passed, Annabeth’s character remained remarkably consistent from the first day he had known her. She would always find a way to command, to control--and, save one obvious exception, to deliver victory. “Oh, Anja,” he said, fondness warming him up from the inside out, “I beg of you, do not ever change.”

“I shall endeavor not to.” She said, faintly. She seemed at a loss for words for several moments, a rarity with her, then spoke once more. “You… you called me Anja.” 

Percy frowned, “I know I struggle with your northern tongue, did I not pronounce it correctly?” He had attempted to divine the subtleties in the difference between the Ana that he had always known her to be, and the Anja her family called her, but perhaps he had been mistaken. 

“No.” Softly, sweetly, a smile curled the straight lines of her mouth, even as she turned her face out to watch the trees as they passed, raising a hand to rest delicately on her stomach. “You were perfect.”

***

Percy laid out his cloak over the smoothest rock he could find. It was a nice cloak, of a much higher quality fabric and weave than to which he was most accustomed. Had he been a smarter man, most likely he would not have used the garment for such a task as this--but he was used to his clothes being worn out, multipurpose things. The hot velvet could find another use as a blanket until the warmth of early summer passed them by. 

Having prepared her seat, he then rushed back to the wagon, reaching his hand out for Annabeth to steady herself on it. “I am not an invalid,” she chided, stretching her leg down to the earth. “You do not have to take such precaution with me.”

“It is no trouble.” The days, slowly but surely, were getting longer, Helios’ chariot lingering for a few more minutes every evening. They could certainly afford to stop and rest for a while should she require it. Once she had revealed to him her condition, he had resolved to mold the pace of their journey to her level of comfort and satisfaction. To ensure her health and the health of their child, Percy could stand a few unexpected delays. 

Supporting her with his arm, he led her to the makeshift seat of stone, situated in a patch of sunlight bracketed by the shadows of the trees behind them. With an adorable little grunt, her sweet face scrunched up, she sat down upon it, sighing in relief. “There,” she breathed, hanging her head. “That’s better.”

The town of Trever was still a little ways off, but they could still see the rise of the town walls over the rolling hills. He noted, with some displeasure, the towering spindle resting on top of the ancient gate--was there nothing these trinity men would not claim for themselves?--but chased the thought from his mind, focusing instead on the more pressing issue at hand. “What is wrong?” 

She had not explicitly told him why they should stop, only that she was desperate for relief of some kind. Rather than push for a reason, he had chosen instead to indulge her. “Some water, please?” she asked, her face drawn.

Nearly tripping over himself, he leapt up onto the wagon to retrieve the water skin before delivering it to her, kneeling down before her. “Are you alright?” he asked again, hiding his concern as best he could. She did not like him to fret so much over her--not that she could stop him.

“I am fine,” she promised. “Your child is just--very active.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Oh?”

She nodded. “Here--feel.” Then, without hesitation, she grasped his hand, and placed it over her stomach. 

Percy, by design, had refrained himself from touching her in any manner that was not explicitly one of acquaintanceship since that wonderful, terrible night, not in any meaningful way. In turn, she had not, precisely, refused his company, but had kept him at something of a distance, emotionally if not physically, likely for his own protection. But now she had initiated contact, had invited him in, and Percy was once again caught up in the sublime experience which was being close to Annabeth Fredriksdotter. Her hair, nearly twice as long as it was when they had arrived in Svealand, was bound up in an intricate knot, though loose, gilded strands fell out here or there, as she had left her head uncovered today, insisting that it was too hot for her wimple. Percy understood that it was key to her modesty as a married woman to cover her head, even if she was married to the likes of him, though he could not pretend he did not dislike it, at times. If only she would look at him, though, grace him with her lovely gaze, rather than their joined hands. 

So distracted by the sunlight filtering through her hair that he nearly missed it.

A small, nearly imperceptible jolt beneath his fingertips. 

Then he felt it again.

He recognized the feeling--it was one he recognized from when his mother was pregnant with his dear, sweet little Esther. “Is that…” he said, trailing off, softly so as not to disturb the moment.

“That,” said his wife, jovial, “is the little monster which has been causing me so much distress recently.”

Swallowing, he blinked back the sudden heat from his eyes. “Oh,” he said, pulling his emotions together so he did not weep. “I am sorry.”

“As you should be,” she said, but she was grinning at him. “Your child is kicking me in the ribs--a skill I am quite certain he got from you.” 

_He_. She thought they were going to have a son.

Something in her smirk riled an old part of his brain. “Kicking was always your maneuver,” he accused, smiling in turn. “If she is kicking,” he insisted, emphasizing the opposite sex purely on principle alone, “it is surely due to her mother’s influence.” 

She rolled her eyes at the reference. “Oh, please do not say you are still sore from--”

“I swear, to this day, I still bear the marks from the force of your blow!” 

“I have seen you without clothes on,” Annabeth said, “and you have no such mark, believe me.”

A silence fell between the two of them, chilly and awkward. She did not attempt to remove his hand from her person, and nor did he wish to remove it.

“It occurs to me,” she said quietly, after some time, “that I… I have never apologized for how I treated you back then.”

Rubbing his thumb against the fabric of her dress, he shrugged. “That time has long since passed,” he murmured, “and we are two very different people now. Let the past remain in the past, I say.”

“Still. I was--very cruel to you,” she said. “I should not have said those things.”

She had been very cruel. Percy had returned to the _agoge_ after a year and a half spent with the Legion, expecting open arms and welcome smiles from his friends and brothers in arms, only to be met with scorn and derision from the one person whom he had most wanted to see. 

After the war with the titans, they had only been granted a short reprieve before they had received an envoy from Aachen, begging Percy’s help with a monster which they simply could not fight on their own, diminished as they were in the realm of _Karolus Magnus_ , far from their ancestral home. Never one to turn down a cry for help, Percy had entreated Annabeth and their former questing companion now turned Lord of the Wild to accompany him. Unfortunately, in the snowy mountains of Dardania, they were ambushed by monsters, and separated. By the time Percy came to his senses, he was in the tender grip of the Latins, and Annabeth was long gone. 

A naturally distrustful lot, they would not let him free until he had proven his loyalty to the rootless empire, and they sent him away to train with their patroness in the wilds. Once Lupa deemed him worthy of service, upon his return, they then put him to work, pairing him with his Latin counterpart, the son of Jupiter. 

Again, he felt no shame with what he had with Iason. Theirs had been a soldiers’ romance, brief, but deep, intense and overwhelming. In truth, he would not have fallen in with the man, save for that he had been under the impression that Annabeth had left him to his doom in the mountains. The Latins had intimated to him evidence of a person’s quick retreat where they had found him, and had let him come to his own conclusions. 

Once the giant Polybotes had been slain, then, and Percy had been released from unwilling service, he had been allowed to return to the shores of Constantinople. There he had received something of a hero’s welcome, with all due honors and celebrations--except, of course, from Annabeth, who had been decidedly not happy with his return. Feelings between them grew fouler and fouler, until, one fateful day, as they were practicing their weapons’ routines on each other’s persons, more hateful words had been traded rather than blows. Quickly, what had been a skilled and professional match devolved into something dirty and mean, filthy trick after filthy trick, until she had kicked him square in the ribs, knocking him flat onto the ground, hissing from between bloodied teeth how she would have preferred it if he had died in Dardania.

After that, Percy had promptly departed for his father’s palace, seeking escape in the form of good cheer and happier people, chasing away his broken heart in the arms of Thetis, and others. 

They had not shared a serious or friendly conversation for years--not until the morning the Ottomans broke through the defense of the city.

“Think nothing of it,” he said, unwilling to dwell on that time any longer than he had to. He would not say it was alright, for it was not, but he also had let go of that animosity many months before, in the shadow of the Erechtheion. 

“You must understand,” she went on, a little forceful, “I was not angry with you, but with myself. I thought I had lost you to a fate unspeakable--”

“I am not certain I would classify Latin conscription as a fate unspeakable,” said Percy, dryly.

She flushed. “I--I only meant--”

“Annabeth,” he said, not wanting to tread this ground any further, “let it be done. Please.”

“After the war,” she spoke, urgently, “I thought… I had--thought that we would… well.” All at once, she slumped as though the very breath had gone out of her, removing her hand from his, nearly curling into herself. “I suppose,” she murmured, “it no longer matters what I thought.”

She did not need to clarify. He knew perfectly well what she had meant. It was not much of a secret that Percy and Annabeth had held some youthful affection for each other, not even from each other. So easily it could have blossomed into something stronger. “I wanted to,” he said, craning his neck to meet her eyes so she could see the truth of it. He _had_ wanted to, and had planned to. But he was no fool, for he knew that a man needed a way of supporting a family before he could start one. The expedition to Aachen, that would have been his ticket into some of the upper echelons of Constantinople; a letter of introduction from a tribune, prefect, or even a centurion would have done wonders for his social standing and finances. “I swear, I wanted to, but then…” 

Her lips lifted in a small smile. Not one of happiness, no. She knew all too well the things they had done to each other, the barbs they had hurled and the wounds they had inflicted. It was the acknowledgement of old sorrows and long-ignored pain which caused her to smile, a pain shared and understood only by the man before her. “As you stated,” she said, “we are now different people, and we cannot dwell on what may have transpired between us.”

A satisfactory answer--tragic, yes, but satisfactory nonetheless. “But we are friends, yes?” he asked, hoping for a little salve for his broken heart.

She raised her head, grey eyes clear and steady. “It is my very honor, Perseus,” said she, a pronouncement handed down from the empress herself, “to call you my friend--my dearest friend.”

It was not exactly what a husband might want to hear from his wife, nor what a man might want from the woman he loved about all things. But for Percy, it would be enough. It was Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter: her hand, her child, her friendship. Perhaps one day, that friendship could be transmuted into something more affectionate, but Percy would not waste his time waiting for a day which would never come, not when she was here, before him, solid and tangible. 

“Percy,” she said, very sweetly, “as wonderful as this is, unfortunately, I must ask you to give me some privacy at this time.”

“Oh,” he staggered to his feet, snatching his hand back. “Of course.” This, too, was a symptom of pregnancy with which he was quite familiar. His poor mother’s body had been pushed to its very limit, and she had had to relieve herself quite often. “I shall leave you to it, then.”

Then, face red, he trotted round to the other side of the wagon, where, paradoxically, he could better protect her.

***

Percy blinked, uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”

“I merely said,” she repeated, unconcerned, “that you no longer have to keep up the pretense. It has been months since I have had such voracious cravings, yet you continue to make a show of your search. It is natural for men to wish time for themselves--I know very well what a man can do with this time away from his wife.” She looked on him flatly, as though she thought he was the fool for thinking her to be one instead. “I am more than capable of amusing myself for a few hours. Please, go on--I am sure the good people of the brothel await.”

The--”I would not do that to you,” said Percy, quietly, a little insulted. Did she truly think so low of him that he would make good on his long-forgotten promise to abandon her to her freedom? Did she not understand that dreams of their brief time together would sustain him as water in a desert, and yet ruin him for any other man or woman? “If you do not believe me, then I insist you accompany me,” he said, firmly. “Allow me to put these thoughts of yours to rest.”

She looked out the window of their little room, where the sun hung low in the sky over _Messalia_. It had been a hot, July mid-morning when they rambled into town, looking for a place to stay the night before they would put to sea the next day, the streets and corners quiet as the people retreated to their homes for their daily rest. Now, as the shadows began to stretch, the city came to life once more, the hustle and bustle of commerce a dull roar beneath the room in the little inn which they had rented. Through the air wafted the scents of spices, coal fire, and the blessed salt smell of the sea, the glittering, golden jewel that lay beyond the walls. “Very well,” she said. “I believe I shall. A walk outside may do me some good.”

With some difficulty, as her large stomach made everything rather difficult for her these days, she managed to stand up from the low bed, reaching for her wimple which she had discarded previously. Tying it about her face, he was once again struck by the duality of his emotions, that he could feel so disheartened and yet so elated by the same action. Her wimple covered all of her gorgeous, golden hair, as modesty dictated it must, yet the act of hiding such beauty signified, once again, that she was his wife--a cause for great celebration, if only in his heart. 

And so they went together on the town.

It was an absolutely marvelous time. 

Once again, the sea infused his senses and soothed his entire being--a familiar sea this time, not the strange, frigid waters of the north, but the deep lapis and emerald of his childhood. Every shaft of sunlight felt as the touch of a friendly hand, and every shadow a cool breeze of relief. Together, arm in arm, they wandered up and down the markets, where Annabeth used the time given to her to practice her Italian. She was a remarkably quick study, as he knew she would be, though it did help that the merchants here were much more familiar with that language than they had been further north. 

By now, Percy had been to markets practically all over the world. Each one was unique, distinct, with its own set of sights and sounds and smells, and yet, each one had been positively lackluster, almost grey in his memory. Not many men were fortunate enough to have seen so much of the known world, and had lived to tell the tale of it. Today, however, walking about with his eight month pregnant wife in the streets of Messalia, he finally understood what they all had been lacking.

So caught up in his wife’s lovely smile as she admired a particularly ripe set of figs, that he accidentally barreled into another person, spilling the contents of their arms all over the ground. Fruit went tumbling, smashing the earth in rich, dark colors, staining the well-worn streets. “Ah, _perdono_!” he cried, dropping to his knees to help gather up the items which could be salvaged. “ _Scusatemi_!” 

“ _Non, non, mon sieur_ ,” said the woman, joining him on the ground, “ _perdon_ , _per_ … Percy?”

At the sound of his name, his head snapped up. 

She was an older woman, with long, thick brown hair streaked with grey which peaked out from beneath her scarf which covered her hair, and eyes that shifted color in the low light. Her skin was tanned a deep brown from hours spent in the sun, and though her face was lined with age, none would look on her and not consider her to be a great beauty. 

They stared at each other, in shock and disbelief. 

“Percy?” called Annabeth, faint in his ears. “I am in need of your assistance, as I cannot remember the world you taught me--”

“Oh!” wept the older woman, dropping the rest of the fruit she had gathered onto the street, opening her arms to hold him. “It _is_ you!” 

And with a deep, wrenching sob, pulled from his chest, Percy threw himself into the warm embrace of his mother.

“ _Mater_ , _mater_ ,” he moaned, burying his face into her chest as she held him close. “Oh, _mater_!”

“I knew it, I just knew it,” she was saying, over and over again, clutching him to her breast, kissing his forehead, “I knew you had made it out. Oh, lord of the sea, earth-shaker in the swelling brine, thank you, thank you, thank you for my son!”

So caught up in the sudden wave of emotion, he was rendered nearly mute. “Mother,” he finally croaked, taking in the warm, sweet scent of her--cinnamon and cloves and sea salt. To think that he had almost forgotten the particular details, hands calloused from years of cooking, eyes twinkling like stars on the surface of the water. “Mother!”

“My boy!” Sally pulled back, raking her hands through his hair, pushing it from his face so she could look on him more clearly. “Oh, my boy, I never thought I would see you again!”

“Nor I you,” he replied, tears blurring his vision. “How--how are you here?”

“I could ask you the very same,” she said, smiling the sweet summer smile which had lit his childhood as a candle in the dark, “and I will hear all of it--but for now, let me simply look upon you! It has been far, far too long since I have seen your smiling face.”

He was smiling, so wide and genuine that it caused his face to ache, a pain he was more than happy to bear, down on his knees in the middle of Messalia. “I have missed you, _mater_ ,” he said, “so much.” 

“Percy?” 

Blinking, he came back to himself, emerging from the dream so suddenly made real. The populace of Messalia were not giving them so wide a berth, just barely sparing the two the indignity of being walked all over. Annabeth stood a little ways away, her hand resting on her protruding stomach, light concern falling over her face like a veil. 

“Mother,” he said, seized with a strange kind of energy, “here.” With steady hands, he lifted her up from the ground, the ruined fruit forgotten. Annabeth stepped closer to them, trepidation slowing her pace. She had already met his mother a number of times--they had often taken rest at her house when a quest required them to take their leave from the _agoge_ for several days at a time--but even he understood that to meet her as his wife was a vastly different thing. 

But his mother, quick as ever, cottoned onto the truth of the matter. “Percy,” she breathed, full of disbelief, “is that--”

“You remember Annabeth,” said Percy, nerves seizing his tongue and nearly stopping it in his mouth, “my--my wife.” 

How strange, that weeks ago, the two syllables represented one of the happiest truths of his life, and yet today, he felt as anxious as a baby colt learning to walk for the first time, desperate for the two most important women in his world to feel some sort of kinship. 

His mother gasped, her hands flying to her face. “Annabeth!” she cried, taking her in her arms without hesitation. “Your wife! How wonderful! Oh, blessed day that made your way here!”

Annabeth stood there, quite shocked, before bringing her arms up as well. 

“Oh, goodness,” said his mother, pulling herself back, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Look at me--I apologize for such unbecoming behavior. But you must come back with me--Paul and Esther will be overjoyed--I will need to purchase some wine--”

It was then that Percy remembered he had, quite indirectly, ruined her groceries. Fruit was not inexpensive, and neither was wine. Percy knew his mother, and he knew she would wish to cook for him in celebration, but he would not see her waste any more of her money on his account. “Allow me,” he said, placing a hand on her arm. “I shall pay you back in full, and then some. Ah, if,” he glanced towards Annabeth, seeking her permission, for it was her money after all, “if that is alright, of course.”

She looked at him, quizzically. “Of course it is alright.”

“Percy,” sighed his mother, “you do not need to--”

“It is settled, then!” Taking her arm in his, he directed them to the fruit seller whom Annabeth had been speaking to just prior, unwilling to let go of his mother for even a second. “We shall have a veritable feast!”

***

Paul, his mother’s husband, had wept upon seeing them. Dear, sweet little Esther refused to let go of her elder brother, stubbornly clinging to his leg. Eventually, she had tired herself out, the poor thing, only allowing her father and Annabeth to take her to bed when she had nearly fallen asleep in his lap. Percy had tried to persuade Annabeth to relax, but she had insisted, looking on Esther with such sweetness and doting in her eyes that Percy found himself hard-pressed to say no. Perhaps she would be so sweet and affectionate with their daughter, as well. The very thought excited him in ways he could not quite describe.

If she was forced to be a mother, then, perhaps it would not be the harshest of fates.

“I am so glad, Percy,” said his own mother, once he had recounted to her the whole, winding tale of his and Annabeth’s journey. Her looking at him with such fondness, it transported him back to that dark, bleak time, when they were all that each other could claim to call their own. Now look at them--families and children, both. Beneath the thumb of a monstrous man, sometimes it was difficult to imagine otherwise. “When the news of Constantinople’s fall reached us… yet I kept the faith. I knew you would survive, and I am so glad you had someone with you.”

He smiled, taking her hands in his, kissing the knuckles there. “All I learned of survival,” he said, “I learned from you.”

She squeezed his hands, warm and solid. 

“But you must tell me how you came to Messalia,” said Percy, before he could begin to weep. “How is it you found your way to this place?”

His mother lifted her shoulders, tilting her head. “My story is not nearly so exciting as yours, I can promise you that. Our voyage out of Constantinople was swift and peaceful, and we arrived on the shores of this city far faster than we thought possible.”

“That was my father,” said Percy. “In Svealand, I had a dream of him--he bade me to send you his love.”

Her countenance transforming, she smiled, sweetly, knowingly, a glint in her eye which lifted years off of her face. “I had wondered,” she said, “for our voyage did seem unusually safe.” Then she shook her head, lightly, casting off whatever memories had come to her in that moment. “What else did he tell you?” 

Much that he wished to keep to himself, though he was sure she would understand. “Have you ever heard of the city of old soldiers?” he asked his mother instead. He felt all of fourteen years old once more, seeking his mother’s guidance, begging for wisdom from a woman of keen sight and keener instinct. 

Frowning, she turned her gaze towards the open window, to the stars which were beginning to show their faces. “I do not know this city of which you speak,” she said quietly. 

Percy sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“Yet,” said his mother, “I, too, have had some extraordinary dreams as of late.”

At that, he perked up once more, leaning in to listen better. As she had told him, once upon a time, her sight had waned alongside her youth, though she could still occasionally perceive that which lay just beyond the comprehension of most mortals. “What have you seen?” he asked, breathless.

She closed her eyes, recalling. “In a city on a river,” she said, “there is a grand building--a church, made of marble, white and green, and above it rests a red dome, reaching towards the sky, as though it longs to return from whence it came.”

“A city on a river,” he repeated. Another clue--yet, just as many cities had rivers as they did old soldiers. 

“I apologize, my son,” said his mother, opening her eyes once more. “This is all I know.”

He squeezed her hands, comforting. “Think nothing of it. We have already decided to seek our fortune in Venice--I have been told that their church there was modeled on St. Sophia. Perhaps this is the dome of which you speak.”

“Perhaps,” she said, unconvinced. “But must you leave us so soon? You will do well in Venice, of that I have no doubt, yet I do not know if I can bear to be apart from you once again. And,” then she grinned, her eyes suddenly sparkling, “I should very much like to meet your child.”

Percy blinked at her, processing what she was saying. Then he flushed, grinning weakly in return. “Ah, yes, well… I should like you to meet her as well.”

Certainly, he possessed no gift of prophecy--he was not, as it were, a child of Apollo--but he found himself dreaming more and more of that little girl with his wife’s lovely hair and eyes, like the children who dressed as St. Lucy. A little girl whom he could lavish all fatherly love and affection upon, rather than a wife who would find it a nuisance at best. She would be his princess; and if her mother could be persuaded, he would call her his Anja.

The lines on her face ran deep, carved from years of laughter and joy which poured forth from her like the sun itself. “Even at such a young age, I could sense the fondness and affection you had for each other. You do not know how happy I am for the two of you.”

A fondness and affection which had now faded on her part--but at least they had resolved to remain friends in a marriage of trust and support, if not love. “When I have made enough money,” he promised, to take his mind off of his situation, “I will send for you and your family, and we will never be parted again. In fact,” he said, struck with sudden inspiration. Rummaging through the various folds of his clothing, he located his purse which carried the rest of the money he had on him, then placed it in his mother’s hand. “Here. A gift, to a wonderful mother from her loving son.”

“Percy,” she tutted, brow furrowed. “Do not concern yourself with me. We are comfortable here, Paul and I; you must focus all of your resources on providing for your own family now.”

“Annabeth has more than enough to provide for herself, her dowry was immense. More land than I thought possible, sold for more money.” he said. “She and our children--our child,” he corrected, cursing himself for his weak tongue, and praying his mother had not caught it, “our child will be kept in comfort for the rest of their days. I carry only a bit for pocket change, so she need not do all the bartering for me. You have done so much for me--please, allow me to do this for you.”

“What do you mean?” his mother asked, picking up the purse, surprised by the weight of it. He observed as she untied the cord, and spilt the contents on her table, the gold coins clinking against each other ever so noisily. “Is it not your money now?”

“I suppose, _legally_ , yes.” he conceded. “But the land we--she gained from her uncle is ancient family land. It would not do for me to leech such things away from her.” Bad enough that she had to be tied to him in motherhood and marriage, but he would not stoop so low as to usurp the use of her finances. “Once I arrive in Venice, I will then pay my own way,” he promised his mother, and his wife, though she was not there to hear him. “I will find work as a laborer, or if I am lucky, perhaps a ship will be in need of a sailor.” 

“I suggest,” his mother said, “that you speak to your wife regarding such things.” 

As much as he would have liked to protest, said wife reentered at that moment, helped along by Paul. “Percy,” she said, “the hour grows late, and we have left poor little Freya all by her lonesome.”

“Ah--of course,” said Percy, standing as well. Damn that cat, he thought. “Then I believe we must take our leave of you now, mother.”

“I understand,” she said, rising to see them out. “Will we see you again ‘ere you depart?”

“Tomorrow,” he promised. “I shall return to you once more.”

Then she swept him up in her arms again. “Until that happy time, my son.”

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of oil and onion, cinnamon and cloves, hearth and home, and marveled again at the strength of his wife who had borne the pain of leaving her father to travel the world with someone like him. “Until then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you want to scream at these idiots for being stupid and then you realize YOU MADE THEM THAT STUPID AND YOU HAVE THE POWER TO CHANGE IT but also you want to see just how far you can stretch this out
> 
> glossary:  
> • Via Imperii/Via Regia: the two major thoroughfares of the roman empire, stretching from poland to italy/spain to russia  
> • Pomerania: a region which now covers modern day poland and germany (tho they're strictly in the polish part)  
> • Stettin: Szczecin  
> • Lipsi: Leipzig  
> • Trever: Trier (and the Porta Nigra)  
> • Basler: Basel  
> • Colln: old Berlin  
> • johann is doing the camino de santiago, a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela  
> • most of the rest of europe... did not care at all about the siege of constantinople 😂 rip  
> • Karolus Magnus: Charlemagne  
> • Messalia: Marseilles  
> • what church could sally be thinking of????????????? hmmmmmmmmm.........
> 
> there is... a whole other novel to be written about percy and annabeth on their way to help the legion that i do not have time to write, but it involves the 1448 battle of kosovo and annabeth planning to seduce percy by arranging for him to find her bathing naked in a river (which, as you might expect, did not work out as planned)
> 
> sorry again this took so long! school is hardddddd lmfao


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Adult TM scenes in this one, be ye warned!

“I was speaking to your mother while you went to market,” his wife said as they settled back into their bed for the night. 

For the time, they were lingering a few extra days in Messalia. It was difficult not to--Venice did not have his mother’s cooking, nor his sister's sweet smiles, and Paul was much better at teaching Annabeth Italian than Percy. As well, Percy needed to go and convert some of their money to florins and ducats and the like, far, far more money than he had ever thought he would ever possess. He was very glad for his step-father’s assistance in this manner; neither he nor Annabeth were terribly talented with numbers, and there were quite a lot of calculations to be done. He was equally glad for the affection between his wife and his mother; that the two most important women in his life got on so well was very pleasing to him. “Oh, yes?”

“I had some questions about pregnancy.” 

He turned to look at her, a sudden flutter in his stomach. She had not told him of any new complaints or complications, but perhaps she had shared them with a trusted woman. “Are you well?” he asked. 

Annabeth pursued her lips, frowning so hard he could nearly see the interconnected web of her clever mind. “I... must admit I have a problem.”

Percy raised himself on one arm, concerned. “A problem? Is it serious?”

“No, no,” she shook her head. “Your mother assured me it was perfectly normal. However, I may require your…” Annabeth trailed off, then, glancing uneasily at him. “...Your assistance.” 

“Anything,” he said, laying a hand on her arm. Such casual touches still managed to thrill him, sending shivers down his spine. “I am at your disposal.” 

“I am…” She swallowed, licking her lips. Percy’s eyes could not help but track the movement. “That is, your mother assured me it was normal for a woman in the last stages of her pregnancy to be taken with certain… needs. So to speak.” 

“Of course,” Percy nodded. Expectant mothers were cursed with sudden, intense, often contradictory desires. He had learned that years prior with his mother and Esther, and had witnessed it firsthand with Annabeth and their little Anja. 

Annabeth met his eyes, stunning storm clouds ringed with gold. “Certain… carnal needs,” she said, slowly. 

Percy… Percy blinked. 

“It is quite common,” Annabeth said, her pink cheeks rapidly turning red in a manner quite becoming, “for women who are pregnant to find themselves with increased lust.” 

“I… see,” Percy said. 

Well, he had certainly notknown _that_ when his mother was carrying Esther. 

Still, there were much more pressing matters at hand. “How… may I assist you?” 

Did she require the room to herself, and need him to protect her privacy? Did she wish him to go and… procure her a tool for aid?

Was that why she had been so fixated on brothels the other day? Was he meant to find _her_ a companion at one? If he did, would it be presumptuous of him to select a woman? He did not like the idea of her laying with another man, but--but she had told him of Katya and Clarice and-- 

No, he furiously thought, nearly shaking his head. Annabeth did not wish to be the object of his lust, and he would not make her so. 

“What may I do to assist you?” he asked her again. As her husband, he would serve his wife and her pregnancy however she required it. The actions he took which led to such a situation had been distasteful to her, and so he must endure some of his own distaste now on her behalf. 

She cast her eyes from his once more. “I… cannot reach,” she admitted, her hand flicking below her round belly. “I was wondering if you would be willing to…” her voice faded away, shame and embarrassment plain on her red face. 

Percy swallowed. “I… you--you wish me to… touch you?”

She nodded. “I find myself in rather… urgent need of completion, and I should be very grateful for your assistance--if,” she rushed to assure him, “it is not too distasteful for you, of course.”

“No,” Percy said, then, quickly, at her crestfallen expression, “I mean, yes, of course it is not distasteful.” He swallowed again, his mouth watering, but making sure his eyes rested on her face and no lower. “I am happy to assist you however you need.” 

A moment passed between them, long and charged. There was a time when he would have been able to divine the whole of her mood and motivations, just from the tilt and shape of her brow. Now, however. He had not been able to read her for quite some time.

Slowly, as though he was approaching a skittish animal, he sat up in bed, peeling the sheets off the both of them. She wore a red kirtle over her chemise this night, her wimple discarded on the floor below, her hair braided down her back. Simple, sturdy traveling fare. 

Hushed, he questioned her once more. “May I…?”

Annabeth nodded. 

Ever so carefully, Percy pulled her dress up, up over her calves, her thighs. Her stockings were tied above her knees, the garters delicately embroidered with wavy lines of green. Percy had not had the pleasure of undressing many women, and the goddesses of his father’s court did not take to modern fashion. He did not know if such garments were standard, or a mark of the maker. Perhaps Annabeth had made them herself and merely liked the pattern. 

“Is there a problem?” Annabeth asked when he waited too long, Percy attempting to keep all his attentions on the cloth and not her pale thigh. 

“No, no,” he said, faintly, and then pushed her dress up more. Perhaps sensing his fear and trepidation, she took it from his hands just as it uncovered her center, pulling it the rest of the way so that it lay at her hips just below the swell of her belly. 

There, beneath the curve of her stomach, he saw the pink flesh and more of the blonde curls which adorned her head, and his mouth nearly watered. They were a darker gold, here, and easier to see in the afternoon sun than they had been by the glow of the hearth on their wedding night.

Would she allow him the use of his mouth, rather than his hands, he wondered? He was not unskilled with his fingers, but his true abilities were in his tongue. He would prefer it, as well, the flatteries of which his tongue never tired.

With a deep, steadying breath, grounding himself in the sweet, fantastical reality of her laid out before him, open and willing and longing for his touch, he reached out a finger, and traced along the seam of her cunt. Once, twice, three times, until she gave a little gasp, her outer lips parting carefully about the tip of his finger. 

So wet already--he tried not to moan himself at the feel of it, at the smell of her as it wafted into the air around him. 

Up and down and up and down, he sweetly toyed with her folds, then dipped inside with a finger. At the little whine which escaped her throat, he had to force down his pleased smile. 

Cease with your foolish thoughts, he chided himself. This was not about his own pleasure. This was about hers. 

Over and over again, then, he went, caressing her cunt as it deserved, as he wished he could do to her every night, trying desperately not to get lost in her sounds of pleasure. This was to ease her suffering, he always had to remember--not for his own benefit. 

“Percy,” she gasped his name, and he felt himself twitch in his breeches. “Please!” 

Too afraid to ask, too caught on his name on her lips, he did not know for what she begged of him. So he took his other hand, and after briefly caressing her belly, the holy chalice which held their child within it, he brought his thumb down on the place at the top of her cunt, rubbing at it while his other hand teased at the rest of her sensitive pink flesh. 

“Yes,” She cried. “Yes, just like that, _yes_ . Percy, yes, _please_.” 

He quickened his pace on her skin, and rather than tease her further, as he so desperately wished to do, instead slid his fingers inside her and out again. As long as he did not say so, as long as he did what she asked, he allowed himself, just for a little while, to pretend it was his cock instead. 

Her sweet cries grew hurried, more breathless as Percy moved his hand faster, harder, with greater intent. 

“Good girl,” he murmured in a hushed voice, a voice which was not under his control, yet nonetheless taken from the deepest, most desperate places of his desire. “Good girl. Just like that.”

She cried out once more, and he was forced to bite his tongue, lest he declare her beauty to rival that of Aphrodite--or lower it for a taste. 

As a flower to the sun, her cheeks bloomed, her eyes fluttering shut as her lips pulled beyond a smile in ecstasy. Letting out one final, piercing cry, Percy felt more wetness gush out of her, straight into his waiting hand. 

He was certainly not unschooled in the ways of women, but he had never seen that before. Percy licked his lips, thankful that she could not see him. 

Slowing his movements, then, he gently brought her down from her feminine heights, her body twitching with latent pleasure as her climax passed her over. Only when he was certain that she was well and truly sated, that her breathing had returned to normal, that her limbs were loose and lax, that her cunt had ceased to ripple around his fingers, did he finally, torturously remove them, sliding them from her body with a great, private reluctance.

Sleepily, she slid her eyes open once more, catching him with her gaze. “Thank you,” she mumbled, her skin still flushed. “Thank you.”

His heart pounded as though he were the one who had just undergone such a physical act, throbbing in his chest. “It was my pleasure,” he said, his voice sounding at least somewhat more normal--a feat far more heroic than any other he had ever attempted before. “To--to help you however you need,” he stammered, quickly following up.

She nodded, waving a limp hand.

Almost against his will, he glanced once more towards the peak of her thighs, wet and glistening. “Allow me to clean you,” he said, pathetically desperate for just another touch of her.

Slipping off of the bed, he made his way to the water basin. When he turned away from her, it took every ounce of willpower and fortitude he possessed not to lick his fingers clean. Instead, he rinsed them off, and then wet his handkerchief, returning to the bed to gently wipe at her folds. She squirmed, weakly, her brow furrowing in a discomfort of feeling.

When he finished, she tossed down her skirts, and with his help climbed out of bed, undoing the lacing of her dress and shucking off her kirtle, before easing herself back down again. He had seen her like this for months now, Annabeth in her linens, her growing belly pushing against the fabric until she had to purchase more to modify her dresses. 

So beautiful, he mused. So perfect. His wife, but not his. 

He would do well to remember that fact. Anja Elisabet was wife, his friend, the mother of his child--but not his. This was the deal they had struck.

She looked out the window, her eyes half closed in sleep and Percy stripped off his own outer clothing. 

He was careful as he climbed into bed not to show Annabeth how much his assistance had pleased him. 

“Thank you, Percy,” she hummed, pleased and pliant, turning onto her side, a hand curled protectively around the swell of their child. 

This bed in the inn was far too comfortable, he thought. They had been here for much too long. “Of course,” he said once more. 

Of course. 

Of course he would serve her, however she needed. 

Of course he would feel empty as soon as the deed was done. 

***

They had no need to stay in Messalia for three weeks, but stay they did, for his mother’s embraces, his step-father’s smiles, and his sister’s giggles. Were it his decision, he would have put down his roots in the port city, never to be parted again. But Venice was what he had promised his wife, and there was the church built in the image of the St. Sophia, perhaps the new home of their godly family. 

So there he left his mortal family behind. 

“Here,” he said on the last morning, as their various parcels were loaded onto the boat, and Annabeth was distracted by Esther’s hugs. He handed his mother another velvet purse, stuffed with more money taken from his little allowance.

“Percy,” his mother said, breathless at the flash of gold. “This must be at least a year’s wages.”

He nodded, a bit uncomfortable. “I thought it might do you some good.” 

“Oh, my darling son.” She placed her slander hand on cheek, her calloused skin rough against his, and his willpower nearly dissolved. “You do not have to do this.” 

“Of course I do,” he said. “You took care of me for so many years, and now that I am able, I shall take care of you in return.”

He paused, then, as he considered his next statement. He did not wish for it to be misconstrued, as he held no ill will towards her husband, but… it needed to be said.

“I am giving this to you,” he spoke, catching her eye so that she could divine his full meaning. “Not to Paul.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He took her hands in his. “I have left Paul our cart and our horse. I know that you told him of the money I gave you weeks ago, but please, do not feel as though you need to share this with him as well.” 

“Percy,” she chided, “Paul would never--”  
  
“I know that, _mater_ ,” he said, for if there ever was doubt to his character, he might have dispatched the man himself long ago. “Still, I think it is fair for you to keep something for yourself, for any trouble which might arise.” 

With those keen, piercing eyes which saw so much, they looked on him with so much affection, he felt his own eyes grow wet. “My son,” she said, so full of tenderness, “I can see that you are a good husband, and will be an even better father to your little girl.” 

He smiled at her words, a tear falling down his cheek. Her excitement over her granddaughter was palpable. 

Percy would see them all again, he swore, and one day, his mother would meet his little Anja, and she and her family would come to call Venice home. 

They all embraced. Esther sobbed, and Paul and his mother were not without tears. Nor was Percy, though he was only in real danger of unbecoming emotion when he heard Annabeth whisper to Esther about what a good aunt she would be to the baby. 

And then, once more did they board a ship, sailing towards a place unknown. 

The first few days, he had worried that perhaps sea sickness would strike his wife again, but, to his pleasant discovery, she was as hale as could be expected, waddling about the ship, hand around her middle as she took in the fresh, salty air. Percy thought fleetingly of the Madonna he had seen in the church Athens, then put her from his mind entirely, for this was surely a more divine and holy mother, this Anja Elisabet, draped in robes of blue and white, belly full of his daughter, standing proudly aboard a ship. 

What goddess, either that of the Christians or the _Hellenes_ or the Norsemen, could ever hope to compare? Perhaps this was the source of Hera’s animosity and ire, all those years ago, the knowledge that one day Annabeth would surpass her in her own domains of marriage and motherhood. 

“You are in a very good humor,” Annabeth said, five days into their journey. “I would have expected leaving your family to put you in a foul mood.” 

She was in something of a foul mood herself today, languishing in their little cabin, unwilling to tread outside. In hopes of lifting her spirits a little, he was rubbing the tightness from her feet, digging his fingers into her muscles. At one particularly strong motion, she moaned, low in her throat, in a manner not dissimilar to when she came, shaking on his fingers. 

“I am very sad to leave them,” he admitted, hoping to keep his mind off of… other things. “But we are our own family now, are we not?”

Her face still slack from the relaxing massage, she frowned, her brows drawing together the way they did whenever she was faced with a particularly thorny Gordian knot of a problem. Percy could not, strictly speaking, discern whether or she derived any joy from such a statement.

He spared a moment to wonder if he had said too much, or if he had made her uncomfortable. But she just nodded. “Yes, of course. We are a family, as well.” She shifted, trying once more to situate herself in the position which would cause the least amount of physical discomfort from her stomach.

Though she were still, at times, entirely unreadable, Percy knew when something weighed heavily on her. “What is it?” he asked, his hands stilling on her foot.

Pausing, she looked away, no doubt weighing the merits of keeping whatever it was to herself. “It is nothing,” she said, after a moment. “I was reminded, for a moment, of Lukas, and of Thalia.”

“Oh.” Percy pressed his thumb into the ball of her foot, easing the tense muscle there, grounding himself in the feel of the delicate bones of her ankle beneath his fingers.

The last Olympian had granted him a vision, once upon a time, of Annabeth as a very, very young girl, lost in what he now knew to be far northern wildernesses, having been rescued by the two older children. Lukas had pledged to her, then, to be her new family, to replace the one which had so cruelly cast her aside--only to cast her aside himself, five years later. Undoubtedly, the concept of a family which would not abandon her was not a concept with which she was overly familiar.

Well, Percy would certainly do his best to familiarize her with it.

Shifting again, she shooed away his concern, bidding him to keep up his work on her aching feet. She seemed to prefer that to even his work on her cunt, which he still provided nearly every day. 

“You never told me,” she inserted into the silence, tight and restrained. “When did you sell the cart and horse?”

He froze, his knuckles pressed against the sweeping arch of her feet, a wave of guilt crashing over him, as the shore in a morning storm. 

Oh, dear. 

Percy swallowed. “I… that is to say…” 

In truth, he had hoped she would not ask. She seemed accustomed to a certain standard of living, and now, burdened with her share of her inheritance, he had thought that she may not notice some of the finer details. But of course, she would, being the cleverest, wisest woman in the world. How, then, did he apologize for such a gross misuse of funds? Of her trust? “I must confess something.” 

With some difficulty, she adjusted her seat, so she could look on him more fully. “What is it?” she asked, her tone short. 

She had been so forthright with him, it was only fair that he did the same. “I did not sell the cart and horse,” said Percy, meeting her gaze. “I gave them to Paul.” 

She tilted her head, appraising. “I did not know he was in need of either of those things.”

“I gifted them so he could sell them,” said Percy, “so they could make use of the money.” 

“Of course,” she said, nodding her head. “That is good compensation for their hospitality, among many other things.” 

“There is more,” he said, nerves rising. “I also… gave my mother some money. Well, quite a sum of money.” A year’s wages, she had said, but between both purses he’d handed over, it had really been much closer to two. “A… rather large sum of money.” 

She frowned, and he felt the guilt sinking lower in his stomach. “How _large_ a sum?”

“Probably… a hundred or so ducats.” 

“Oh,” she said, her face falling from a frown into a sort of bemused smile. “I understand why your mother would think that was so much money but--”

“I wish to assure you,” he chimed in, quickly, desperate to explain himself, “that I will work tirelessly to recoup it when we make land.” 

“Recoup what?”

“The money which I took from you.”

“Percy,” she said, in a tone he knew from their youth, the one she assumed whenever she tried to patiently explain something to him, rather than simply calling him the fool she considered him to be. “The money is in your name. You know that, yes?”

“I do,” he agreed, “but that does not make it mine.” 

“Any law would say otherwise.” 

“The law does not always speak truly,” Percy said, “The money is yours, by right and by blood. I apologize for taking so much of it without your express permission, but please know that I do intend to pay you back in full.” Such a task would take a long while. Two years at least, for the money he gave to his mother, and quite a bit more for the horse and cart, then he could begin working to save to send for his mother and her family. Hopefully, Annabeth would be willing to pay for their room and board when they arrived. “I suspect there is work to be had on many a ship in Venice. I know a good many merchants make their homes there. If not, perhaps I can find employment in a shipyard. I cannot be a shipwright, of course, as I would not be able to afford the apprenticeship, and I am too old besides, but there is always work to be found, if not on the sea, then in the city.” It would be torture to live so close to the sea and yet work with the soil, but he would find a way to persevere. “I will find something, I promise you.” 

Annabeth stared at him as though he had grown a second head. “I do not understand.”

Percy knew very well how the children of Athena hated problems they could not quickly understand. “I want to assure you,” he tried again, “that I will pay you back all that I owe. Unfortunately, it shall not be quick. Nevertheless, I shall toil until you are compensated in full. I fear, though, that without any previous social standing, such an undertaking may encompass several years. I am sorry for the delay, but I will fulfil my debt to you, one day’s wage at a time.” 

This had been the issue, oh so many years ago. It had been an issue in Constantinople, when it was all he could do to feed himself during the siege, and it had been an issue at the tender age of sixteen, when he could never have supported a family. Now, thankfully, his wife had a deep cushion upon which she and their child could fall, which took a tremendous weight off of his shoulders.

“One day’s wage…” she repeated, softly, unbelievingly, then with a force and speed which surprised him, Annabeth yanked her foot back from his hands. “You mean to tell me,” she said, steel-voiced and spitting fire, “that you plan to become a common laborer?”

“Unless by some measure of luck a man of distinction from Constantinople with whom I served now resides in Venice, I have nothing in the way of connections.” The odds of that, he felt, were startlingly slim, however. He could, perhaps, send a message to Aachen, as they had their own web of social ties running up and down Italy, but he thought Annabeth might dislike money made from a Latin connection even more than the slow amounts he could provide with work by his own hands. Iason would be eager to help him, but Annabeth would likely not be eager to take it, and so he would not mention it.

Annabeth still stared at him, befuddled, angry. “But--I--You--” 

She stood up off the bed with easy grace, long practiced even despite her belly, but as she began to pace in their very small cabin, she did waddle around a bit, distracting Percy with the beauty of the image. This was an important conversation, he told himself, shaking his head. “What can I do to--” 

Then, with a frustrated cry, she whirled on him. “You truly would disrespect me so much?” she demanded, her face red. 

The force of her words was so strong he had to lean back a little. “I--” he stammered, uncomprehending, “I only wish to do right by you.” 

“Do right by me?” she sneered. “How? By disrespecting our marriage so entirely that you will not claim what is legally yours? By reducing me to a laborer's wife in a city of strangers? Me!” she scoffed, her voice rising higher and higher in pitch and volume. “A daughter of Athena. A warrior of Rome. A legacy of Frey and a lady of house _Förfölja_!” 

“You can be whatever you wish,” he offered, and although it was true, it sounded small to his own ears. Her father had wished for her to play politics among the noble houses of Svealand--if she wished to do so in Venice instead, he would not stop her. 

“Oh yes,” she said, venom in her voice. “I can certainly go and meet with the _Doge_ and his retinue. I shall dress up in my silks and my aunt’s jewels, and when they say, ‘Oh, Signora Thalassinos, who is your husband?’ I will have to reply, ‘Oh, he mucks the stables near the shipyards!’” 

Overwhelmed by her fire, her intensity, he blinked at her, speechless. 

“You would have me introduce our son,” she went on, incensed, “not as the legacy of great gods and greater heroes, but as the son of a man who refuses to honor his marriage, and would rather toil away on the docks!” 

His hands raised before him, he beseeched his goddess, demurely, placatingly. “What would you have my do, my lady?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed, and he was reminded of her mother, of so many years of disapproval. Lady Athena had wanted him to stay away from her daughter, and for several years, he had thought she had gotten her way. “Take what has been freely given,” Annabeth demanded. “If you wish to return to the sea, well, buy a ship. Buy a dozen! Surely you would have better luck carrying goods across the _Mare Nostrum_ than any other man, with your father’s blessings. But if you insist on ignoring the money that is by law, custom, and my own wish _yours_ , then you shall earn it back in a manner which will not shame me or my child.” 

Stunned, he said in a quiet voice, “I do not wish to take advantage--” 

“Oh, I know,” she nearly snarled. “You will take no advantage, nothing of me--only my hand and my maidenhead.”

He flinched, as though he had been struck. 

“And what do you give me in return? Your distance and your disrespect.” Her breathing was hard, labored, as though she had just gone several rounds in the arena. His own heart beat so rapidly in his chest it felt like the sparring match was against him. Perhaps it was. “I took you as my husband, son of Poseidon. I expect you to act like it.” 

She made to leave their cabin, to make a grand exit worthy of the Empress she should have been, had she chosen a better husband. Then, as she reached the door of their cabin, her shoulders tensed, and she curled in on herself, letting out a cry of pain. 

Percy was by her side in a moment. Wrapping his arms around her, her hands clutched at her stomach. “No,” he breathed, all anger and fear forgotten, “not now.” 

“No,” she agreed, “no, I think not.” She straightened up a little, but left most of her weight on him, “Your mother told me this could happen. False pains, she called it. It is not yet time.” But she did not seem so confident. 

“Come,” he said. “Sit.” 

She ended up laying down on their little cabin bed, huddled on her side, her face drawn in pain and worry, but after ten long, excruciating minutes, no other pains came, and her breathing returned to normal. 

“Do you need anything?” Percy asked her, gently. “Some water? Some wine?” 

She nodded weakly, but did not specify which.

After a few minutes, making certain she was no longer in any serious pain, he then went in search of one or the other, and possibly even a little bit of food. 

The sailors greeted him as he emerged onto the deck. He was quite friendly with the seamen. Annabeth had paid good money for their services, yes, but also, he sensed that they could feel a kindred spirit among them. 

He found the quartermaster, a kind man with five children of his own and the air of a legacy of Neptune, with very little trouble. The man was always eager to assist this young charge and his wife, and gladly procured Percy wine and hard bread. 

“Anything else?” he asked. 

Percy considered, as a thought occurred to him. “You do not happen to be in possession of any olives, do you?”

He gave Percy a sort of sideways look, and then, to Percy’s amazement, nodded, producing a small jar of the stuff. 

Percy could have kissed the man. His thanks would have lasted all night, had he not been shooed away, back to his wife. 

She had maneuvered herself to a sitting position once more when he returned. Freya the cat had made herself quite at home against the line of her thigh, purring contentedly as Annabeth rubbed at her belly, speaking words he did not understand, but recognized as her father’s tongue, so musical and lilting that it could have been a lullaby. 

“I have returned,” he said softly, almost unwilling to interrupt the moment. “With--"

At his voice, she raised her head, her eyes a little red and puffy from tears, but the smile she directed towards him was soft and pleased. “Oh, thank you, Percy. Here, come sit by me.”

Settling in on her other side, ever mindful of both her stomach and her furry companion, he handed her the wine, resisting the urge to brush her hair which had fallen into her face.

“I do apologize,” she said, after she had taken a drink. “I did not mean for my words to be so harsh.”

“It is alright,” he replied. “I did not realize the enormity of your feelings.” 

Nibbling on a piece of bread, she swallowed, chasing the morsel with a little more wine, before pinning him with an odd sort of stare. “You must remember, Percy, that your choices no longer solely affect you. You are a husband, and a father. There are certain things which you are now obligated to provide.”

“Yes, I am aware,” he said, throat thick. Money and order and prestige, none of which he possessed. “All I meant for was to reassure you that I would not trap you in a situation from which you could not free yourself, should you ever need to.”

More than she knew, the shadow of his mother’s first husband hung over him still. He would rather die than submit Annabeth to even an echo of the same treatment. 

“I am not trapped,” she said. “I extended the proposition of marriage to you, and you agreed--quite the opposite of the way things are usually done, might I add.”

He chuckled. That did seem to be a common thread between them.

“But,” she went on, “I am your wife. You must remember that. There are things for which I will not stand, and unlike some women, I have a noted history of running off when I do not like my treatment. When I married you, I knew, however, that you would never do those things.” She paused, considering him, holding his gaze. “I am a reflection of you, as a wife always is. I chose a brave, handsome, powerful, intelligent husband, and I am happy to be with him--but it will do me no good if he hides away and refuses to use his gifts, or disrespects our union by not valuing property that is rightfully his. If you act as though our union is not one of partnership, but one of a great burden, then, whatever your intentions, that will harm me.” 

There were a million things he wished he could tell her, in this moment, promises of autonomy, declarations of love, but he knew she would not want to hear either. “That is not fair to you,” was all he ended up saying. 

“I never said it was fair,” she agreed, a sympathetic twist to her mouth. “However, this is the way it is. I am not so displeased with my choices, not yet, but please, for my pride, if nothing else, do not prove me wrong.” 

“Well,” Percy offered, falling into old step, “pride is your fatal flaw, _skjaldmær_. I suppose I must take particular care with it.” 

She smiled at him, real, true, beautiful. “That is what I ask.” 

“Is that all?”

“Well,” she grinned, a little of her humor shining through, “I daresay I shall ask for much much more--for what, however, at this time I cannot say.”

Percy wished he could, were she so inclined, offer her the world, his devotion, his love, all that he had and more. He settled instead for reaching beneath his cloak and pulling out his gift from the quartermaster. “I know you said that your cravings had--” 

Before he could even finish his sentence, Annabeth had yanked it from his hand. 

“Olives!” she cried in a tone not dissimilar to that of her lusts. “Oh Percy, you found them! You found me olives at sea!” 

In very quick succession, she kissed him, and then she had the jar open and began shoving olives into her mouth. 

***

In _Neapolis_ , as he was disembarked, he made certain to purchase more olives for her. He did not do so because he wished to put some space between himself and his wife, but rather because she loved them, and at this stage in her pregnancy, she was finding herself uncomfortable all the time. The movement of the boat was not the cause of her nausea, but the cramped quarters and lack of comforts were wearing on her. 

So, he set out to find her olives. The fact that he felt his own failure as a husband keenly, but he still did not know how to rectify it, was merely an additional consideration. Thus, he would provide her with food, because it appeared he was unable to provide her with anything more effective. 

He managed to procure a few figs as well, juicy and sweet. And some salted nuts he thought might please her. And many many olives. He spent a good deal of money on the volume, hoping that they would last them to Venice, or at the very least to their next stop.

Spending money on his wife was no hardship. On himself, however? It took him several minutes to convince himself into purchasing a new hat, as his had accumulated a rather disgusting layer of road dirt. 

She would like this one, he hoped. It was black, but with a blue and gold trim around the brim. She seemed to enjoy that particular color scheme.

He came back to the ship to some commotion, though he only half listened to the first mate’s words as two trunks were loaded aboard. He was nervous around his wife, still, her condition always lighting fearful fires within him, but he found he could never be too far away. Percy felt as though he were a young boy of fifteen all over again, just returning from their terrible, terrible trip beneath the earth, only now coming to terms with the breadth of his feelings for her. 

“There's been some commotion on the ship while you were gone,” said Annabeth as he entered their cabin, once more laid out on their bed. Freya the cat did not crowd her this afternoon, but slept peacefully on Percy’s discarded winter cloak. 

“Yes,” Percy agreed, handing her the olives and figs, watching with detached horror as she stuffed them both simultaneously into her mouth. Would it be husbandly to mock her choice? Had they both still been youths, he would not have hesitated to do so, and that good natured mocking had come so easy to him still, even with his devotion, but everything now felt so unbalanced. Marriages did contain humor and good-natured ribbing, but were they acceptable enough substitutes for love and affection? Too fearful to try, he instead answered her question. “We have taken on a new passenger, it seems.” 

“Anyone interesting?”

“A count, returning to his home in Venice,” he said. “The first mate did not volunteer many more details.”

“Perhaps you should introduce yourself,” she suggested. “As you said, we have no connections in the city. A count on friendly terms could potentially be a great boon.”

A part of him hated how she had listened to his every word, as she should not have to manage his life so fully, but, well, it was a very good idea.

“I will do so when you are feeling a little better,” he promised.

“See to it that you do.”

She winced, then, moving about to readjust herself on the bed. “I apologize,” said Percy, for what must have been the thousandth time. He never wished to cause her such discomfort, even if the reason was a happy one.

“I have asked you repeatedly to stop apologizing,” she said, relaxing into the bed. “You know it is no trouble. I have traveled to the ends of the world with you twice now, both ways. I think it is in fact easier to do while with child, mostly. Next time,” she continued, quickly, refusing him ample time to dwell on her strange words, “perhaps we shall arrive before the later days.” 

Such words belonged to the realm of dreams; “next time.” In truth, they would not have another opportunity such as this. This would be their only child. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that it was better for her, as many a tragedy befell women in the birthing bed. 

His own fears about what might await his wife were quiet, but as the date came nearer, it had been harder and harder to quell them. She was hearty and hale, but normally she would have been confined to comfortable rooms. Even traveling up and down the continent, the meanest inn made a far better place to lay than the softest beds upon the undulating ocean.

They had no nectar or ambrosia here, no healer of Apollo or midwife of Artemis on hand. Annabeth only had Percy, and he was sorely terrified he would find himself lacking in the crucial moment.

Ashore, in Neapolis, he had burned a sacrifice in preparation, to Artemis, Eileithyia, and Hera, and any deity who had even the remotest connection with childbirth. He had strongly considered using one of their precious few _drachmae_ to attempt to contact the _agoge_ , or perhaps Thalia and her maiden hunters. They had, like their lady, brought babies into the world on occasion.

Without a guarantee of success, however, he found himself loath to waste such time and resources. But it mattered not--they would be in Venice in a few days, he would find her the most comfortable of rooms, the most talented of midwives, and the most celebrated of doctors, and there they would await the birth of their daughter. 

Afterwards, what he was supposed to do still remained a mystery. Not be a laborer, not find work on a ship, he was too afraid to ask what she wanted him to do. Too afraid to once again ignite her ire. Too afraid that he could not give it to her.

In some ways, her growing discomfort was a blessing. It distracted them both from having to figure out what he was to do to make her truly happy. 

They set sail again, and Percy sunk into the feeling of the sea all around him, a brief escape from his wife’s, his dearest friend’s discomfort. They were very close to their destination, less than a fortnight at a normal speed, and with Percy’s help, well, they could be much, much faster. 

As Annabeth winced and groaned, her momentary peace fleeing her with the rocking of the ship, he decided that they would make it to Venice in ten days’ time. Most likely, he could manage an even quicker pace, but he did not wish to scare the sailors so badly that they might stop all together. 

Perhaps they should not have dallied in Messalia. Or perhaps they should have remained longer, long enough for her to give birth. 

He should have done a great many things differently, it seemed. 

At her request on the second day, he took her out of their cabin, supporting her as they slowly walked about the deck. All night, he had heard her toss and turn in their shared bed, groaning in pain. She seemed a little better this morning, but hopefully the sea air would do her a bit more good. 

“And if not me,” she said, her jest squeezed through gritted teeth, “then perhaps your sea spawn.” Her laughter was cut off by her gasp of pain, digging her nails into the skin of his arm.

By his count, she had done that at least every five minutes for at least several hours. The time between the pain might have even been getting shorter. 

“Are you certain you are alright? There are plenty of places to make port between here and Venice.”

She waved him off. “I am fine, I just… _ooh_ , it feels as though your child is nearly as excited by the sea as you are.”

Usually, Percy would have been mollified by such a statement, and he would have gone about his business as usual--but not today. “I think we should return to our cabin, and get you back in b--”

All at once, she crushed his hand, nearly falling into him as she let out a terrible, heart-wrenching cry.

“Annabeth!” He braced her against his body, a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “What is it?”

“ _Ma ton Dia_ ,” she gasped, “I… oh, no! Oh, stupid, stupid, I am such a fool!”

“What?” he pleaded. “What?”

Her eyes were wild, shiny and tinged with pain. “The baby,” she groaned, “Percy--your mother told me I would--” Then she cried again, even more anguished than before.

“Anja!” He nearly buckled beneath her weight.

“It’s coming,” she grunted, struggling to remain upright as the ship roiled beneath them. “The baby--it’s here!”

Oh, no. Ohhh, no no no. “What? Now?”

“Yes, now!”

“I--”

“Perc--” she wailed again, too much in pain to speak. 

A large wave crashed on the side of their ship, sailors shouting orders to one another. 

Paralyzed with fear, all Percy could do was clutch her closer. Now? Now, of all times? 

One of the men stepped up to them, beginning to herd them towards below decks. “Signore Thalassinos,” he said, gruff but commanding, “there seems to be a storm rising, we ask that you return to your cabin until it has passed--” 

“My wife is having her baby,” he blurted to the man. 

His fear and terror must have been plainly evident, for the man paled in response. “Now, sir?” he squeaked.

“Yes, now!” Percy said. “Come, we require your assistance.”

When he made to shift her so that he could carry her, she cried out even more, releasing her grip on Percy so as to clutch at her stomach. Together, they braced her between the two of them, but rather than return them to their cabin, he led them to the captain’s suite. “The captain has a much larger bed,” he said, easing the door open with his shoulder. “Your wife shall be more comfortable here.”

Percy did not even have the wits to protest, or thank the man.

She shrieked as they laid her down, her hands clawing at the fine sheets. “Shh, shh, Anja,” he gentled, lacing her fingers with his. “I am here, I am here.”

“Signore…”

The crewman was looking down at his feet, gesturing to a spot on the captain’s rug. It took him far, far longer than it should have for Percy to realize that it was blood. A trail of it led beyond the door, onto the deck of the ship. Squeezing her arm in a silent apology, he positioned himself in front of the other man so he would not be able to see, then lifted up just a corner of her dress.

Her chemise had been white when she had put it on this morning. Now it was all stained and colored, a deep, dark, red.

Hastily, he laid the fabric back down, his hands shaking.

“Annabeth, darling,” he said, one hand coming up to push the hair which had fallen from her wimple out of her eyes, “you are bleeding. What do I do?” 

“I don’t know,” she said, her face red, tears leaking from her eyes. “I--I have never done this before. I do not know.” 

“Is there supposed to be so much blood?” Percy knew little of childbirth, but quite a bit about injuries. Had this been an arm or a leg, he would have been very concerned. Being a woman was bloody business, he knew, but was this how they were supposed to go? 

“I do not--I do not think so…” she whimpered.

The helpful sailor still stood there, at a loss of what to do with himself. From beyond the cabin, he could hear the pelting of rain as it smashed into the ship.

“Percy, I think something is wrong,” she said.

Something was wrong. 

Something was wrong.

“It hurts,” she cried, “differently, differently than it had before. I can’t--” Then she let out a great wail.

No. No. No. 

The boat beneath them rocked, violently. Percy was able to keep himself and Annabeth stable, but the crewman was not so lucky. 

“It’s alright,” he soothed, “it's alright.” 

Again the ship lurched beneath them, sailors shouting in fear and terror. He paid it no mind. 

Annabeth screamed, her whole body contorted in pain. 

“Something is wrong,” she said once more. “Something is _wrong_.” 

No. No. He felt like the sea outside--angry, rolling, ready to burst. 

The ship swayed again. 

“Percy!” 

"Signore, what is it?” asked the crewman, having finally, fully righted himself.

Had he been of a clearer head, he would have recognized that the man could not understand Annabeth, as she had been screaming in Greek. At the moment, however, he was too full of fear to be kind. “Don’t just stand there,” he snapped. “Go and get the doctor!” 

A midwife would be far, far better, but they would have to settle for the ship’s doctor. Between his experience and Percy’s battlefield expertise, hopefully they would be able to come up with something between the two of them. 

“Yes,” said the man, “the count’s friend, he is a doctor, he said. He is a doctor.” 

“A doctor,” Percy repeated. “There is a real doctor aboard?”

“ _Si,_ Signore, yes. He is not Italian, but the count says he is a doctor.”

“Fetch him for me,” Percy pleaded, “please, fetch him, tell him something is wrong, and I will pay him whatever he wishes.” 

The sailor departed, nearly tripping on himself to get out of the cabin. “What is happening, Percy?” Annabeth asked, frantic. “What did you say, where is he going?”

“He said there is a doctor aboard,” Percy said, turning his attention back to his wife, “he is going to get him.” 

“The ship’s doctor?” 

“No, the count’s doctor is aboard--I sent him to fetch the man.” 

Weakly, she reached for him, her fingers clumsily hitting his arm. “It will be alright, won’t it Percy?” she asked. He had never seen her so afraid before. “Percy, promise me it is going to be alright.”

“It will be alright, I swear it.” Hands working quickly, he undid her wimple, as he knew she disliked the garment, and he did not want her to grow even more feverish. 

Under it she looked pale and almost clammy. Still she bled. 

The seas outside turned even choppier as Percy waited for this mysterious doctor to come and save his wife. 

He did not want to disturb his wife with any more loud noises. The last thing she needed right now was to see him in all his fear and terror. Within the depths of his mind, he cursed himself for being a fool. If only he had not been so selfish, staying in Messalia for so long! If only he had not given into the sweetest of all possible temptations!

But now was not the time for self-flagellation. Now was not even the time for prayer, though pray he did, begging all the gods who had ever thrown a scrap of goodwill their way to save her, Eileithyia for a safe delivery, Apollo for a safe recovery, even the queen of the heavens, who had no lost love for either of them, but whose protection extended towards families. He prayed to them all for the gift of Annabeth’s life, and that of their child, promising anything, everything. There was not much he would not do, should they call upon him to pay his debt, as long as she would survive this. 

“You’ll be alright,” Percy said, pressing a kiss to the curls plastered on her forehead. “You’ll be alright.”

“And our son,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “He’ll be alright too, won’t he, Percy?”

“Of course.” He smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “Everyone shall be healthy, hale, and whole--you shall see.” 

It seemed to work, somewhat, Annabeth relaxing into the pillows, giving him a shaky smile in return.

Kronos’ curse upon them, perhaps, it was likely mere minutes, but felt like another age had passed before the cabin door once again swung open. “Here, _Dottore_ , here she is.” said the crewman, ushering in another man. “Signore, I have brought you the count’s doctor. As I said, I apologize for the interruption--”

“It is no trouble,” said the other man, his voice lightly accented. “I am happy to help. Good day, Signora Thalassinos, I am… _Ana Zabeta_?” 

Percy looked up sharply. That voice, that-- 

“Guillaume?” Annabeth whispered, raising her head. 

“ _Guillaume_ ,” Percy repeated, “Will.”

It was him. Will, son of Apollo, the greatest healer of heroes, the most skilled doctor that the _agoge_ had ever produced. 

“Percy?”

“Oh, thank all the gods,” Percy cried, dropping his Italian completely. “Oh, thank you, _Boedromios_ , thank you, father! Will, something is wrong.” 

Sparing him a quick glance, he stripped off his own outer layer, discarding it on the floor of the cabin, and rushed over to Annabeth. “Help me get her gown off,” he told Percy, before waving at the crewman. “You, stay--I may have need of you yet.”

“Can you help her?” he asked.

“Childbirth is generally the purview of women,” Will said. “I have only assisted my aunt in a few before--but I am confident in our process.” 

That was enough reassurance for him.

He and Percy got her kirtle out, so she was only in her chemise, the linen sticking to her skin as Will peeled it away to examine her. A consummate professional, his face remained calm even as the boat ferociously lurched to one side, then the other. 

“Percy,” WIll said, firmly, “please stop raising a storm outside.” 

He blinked. “What?” 

“Please try, for Annabeth.” Touching at her belly and between her legs, he frowned as he looked at the blood. Even in pain, nothing escaped Annabeth’s notice. 

“What is wrong?” she asked, weak and withdrawn. “Will, Will, is my baby--”

“Sailor,” Will called in Italian, turning back to the man to look at him, “please go and tell the count to bring me my specialty bag. He’ll know what it means.” 

“I can go fetch it for you, sir. I will not bother the count.” 

“No,” Will said, firmly, years of wrangling unhelpful demigods in the infirmary lending him strength. “Tell the count to bring my bag, and some linens if he has some on hand, which he should. If he questions you, tell him I demanded it.” 

“Will,” Percy said, “let me go go and--”

But he shook his head, reaching into his bag and removing some cloth. “Stay. I shall need your assistance for this next portion.” He handed Percy a wooden rod and a cloth, then leaned over Annabeth, the picture of peace and serenity, even in such a stressful time. “Annabeth,” he said slowly, “I sense there is some tearing, and you are bleeding far too much. However, I promise I can take care of that. Unfortunately, there is another problem: the baby is in the wrong position.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, wincing as another wave of pain crashed over her. 

“I can feel the baby’s feet,” Will said, “when I should feel the head. I will try to turn it, but I may need to try a few other things beforehand.” 

Eyes glassy, she begged of Will, “You will save my baby, Will, yes? Please… Percy…” She grasped at his hand, mumbling words he did not understand.

“Percy,” murmured the good doctor, “this will be painful. I will do what I can, but I wish to keep her as comfortable as possible. I’ll need you to make sure she can bite down on the wood, and wipe her face and her chest as well. Can you do that?”

For her? Anything. “Yes,” he said, “yes.”

“Very good. Can you calm the sea?”

“I--” 

There was a knock on the door to the cabin again. “Will?” came a deeper voice, speaking Greek. “What is going on? There is a vicious storm brewing, and I found this cat that seems to be in serious distress."

“Quickly, quickly.” Will called back, not looking away from Annabeth. “Come in.”

Too exhausted, too worried, too scared, Percy could not properly comprehend precisely what he was seeing when Niccolo di Angelo walked into his cabin, carrying a leather bag that seemed to glow even in the dark room in one arm, and Freya the cat in another. 

Nico, however, did not have that problem. He nearly dropped both of his parcels at the sight of them. “Percy?” Eyes wide, mouth open, he then took in the whole strange, frightening scene. “Annabeth? What--what is the matter?”

“Several things,” said Will, “and we shall have our joyous reunion once they are resolved.” He wiped his bloodied hand on a cloth, and then opened the bag which Nico had placed beside him, taking out several little clay jars and water skins. Smearing a substance on his finger from one of the jars, with his other hand, he gently tapped Annabeth’s cheek, pulling her attention, her eyes fluttering open. “I need to attend to some of the bleeding,” he said, serious and stern. “I apologize in advance, but this will feel very strange.” His countenance never wavered, even as he lowered his hand and slipped his fingers inside of her. Then he nodded at one of the water skins. “Percy is going to help you drink some, yes? Just a few sips.”

“Alright,” she agreed. 

Percy reached for the skin, recognizing it as nectar from the smell as he dribbled a bit into Annabeth’s mouth. For him, it smelled of his mother’s kitchen in the evening, cinnamon and honey and nuts. “Here Anja,” he said, hoping it would remind her of home, “drink up.”

“No,” said Will, “only a little! The other is unicorn draught. She can drink all of it, if she wishes, as long as it is done slowly.” 

He brought the other skin to her lips. “Careful,” he said, as some of it leaked out of the side of her mouth. Unicorn draught was potent, powerful--he himself had had much of the stuff during his stay with the Legion, and he knew firsthand just how effective it could be. “There we are, there we are, love.”

Nestled in Nico’s arms, their poor cat wailed, upset at her mistress’ distress. 

“Nico,” Will ordered, “please pet that cat before she wakes every sea monster that Percy has not already raised with his storm.” Then he took a deep breath. “Annabeth, I am going to reach inside and try to reposition the baby. You can bite down on the stick. It will all be over soon.”

“Can you bite down for me, Anja,” Percy asked, putting the water skin aside and raising the stick to her mouth. 

Eyes shining, she pulled together a smile, soft and full of pain. “ _Jag skulle göra vad som helst för dig_.” she whispered. Then she bit down. 

He could still hear her scream around it. Several tears ran down her cheeks, and he wiped them away

After a few moments, Percy looked towards Will, who was now smiling. 

“Good, Annabeth, very good,” said Will. “You're ready, you can start pushing now.” 

“ _Malaka_ ,” swore Nico, looking rather green. Dressed in a black doublet, surcoat, and breeches over black hose, in his arms resting their little white kitten, he made for a startlingly amusing picture, entirely out of place for such a fraught moment. 

“It is alright, Anja,” Percy said. “It is nearly done.” 

Weeping, red-faced, exhausted, she nodded, and began her most harrowing trial.

There was not much more he could do to ease her suffering at this point, but he supported her as best he could without a birthing chair, allowing her to brace herself against him as she cried out and made aborted movements. Then Will was announcing things: a head, shoulders, arms. 

And then a cry pierced the room, cutting through Annabeth’s moans and the roar of the sea in Percy’s ear. Annabeth fell back against him, loose like a bow released from its string. 

“Annabeth,” Will said breathlessly, a bright, broad smile on his face. He stood, holding something in his arms, and presented it to them. “You have a son!” 

A son.

They had a son.

He took a closer look.

It-- _he_ \--was small, and round, blotchy white and purple and brown. Wrinkled and wet. Ugly. 

He looked, all things considered, like a turnip pulled from the ground. 

Reverently, Will placed him into Annabeth’s outstretched arms. 

“Oh,” she cooed, breathless, “look at you.” 

A son. He had not wanted a son. He had hoped, so hoped, for a daughter, a little Anja to be a reflection of her mother in all things. 

The boy resting in Annabeth’s arms already had dark hair, and a mighty cry, calming when he came to rest on his mother’s chest. Then, for the first time ever, he opened his eyes.

His face was still purple and white and splotchy, yet when he looked up at Percy, his eyes were the color of the Bosphorus on a sunny day. Those were Percy’s eyes. That was Percy’s dark hair coating his small head, Percy’s nose reflected in miniature. 

Yet there was something in his expression, mere moments old, passing judgement on his father. _You wanted a daughter_ , it seemed to say, _but I knew better_. 

Annabeth always knew better than him, and so, it seemed, did her son. Her beautiful perfect son. 

His son. 

He fell in love at that moment, meeting his son’s eyes, sea green to sea green. “Welcome,” he said, reaching out to run a finger along a round, splotchy cheek. “May all the gods' blessings be upon you.” 

When he pulled back, Annabeth was watching him. “Are you alright?” she asked, hushed. 

“I have never been better,” he promised, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “And you?”

“I…” She did not answer, her brow furrowed. Swallowing, she turned back to the baby in her arms. 

“Here,” said Will, holding out a square of ambrosia, “take this, if you please.” 

Nico hummed, looking out of the cabin door. “It appears as if the storm has broken.”

While Will did his best to make Annabeth comfortable as she took the baby to her breast, Percy cleaned up what mess he could, gathering the dirtied linens together. He would have to apologize to the captain for commandeering use of his quarters, and pay him back for the use of his bed.

“Do not fret over the captain’s things,” said Nico, somehow divining his thoughts, as he usually did. His black clothing was now covered in white fur, as Freya had made herself quite at home in his embrace, all distress forgotten, sleeping peacefully in the crook of his arms. “He is a good friend--I can certainly compensate him for a new set of linens.”

Percy shook his head. “That is very kind of you, but I can afford it.” If he were to have some control over their shared finances, then he would not begin by placing themselves in debt.

“I apologize for the interruption,” said Will, “but I need to give Annabeth another exam. Percy,” he grinned, and it was then he noticed that Will was holding the baby in his arms. “Would you like to hold your son?”

“Yes,” came tumbling out of his mouth. “Yes, I do.”

“So he is your son, then?” Nico asked. At least he had the decency to look bashful at the look Will shot him. 

The good doctor placed the baby into his waiting hands.

He was so small. 

He did not cry, being removed from his mother, but blinked up at him, sleepily, uncomprehendingly. Percy began noting so many little details--the thin, patchy eyebrows which would no doubt grow in with time, his pudgy fingers, curled into a little fist, his ears, an exact replica of his mother’s, the ones for which Percy had once considered composing sonnets. This was his _son_ , made in their image, but also a little person in his own right.

Was this how his own father had felt, all those years ago, holding Percy in his arms?

“I think you will be just fine,” Will proclaimed, rising from Annabeth’s side. “I will go get you some food, but in the meantime, please, drink the rest of the unicorn draught. I shall return shortly. If there is any issue, do not hesitate to send for me at once.” 

“But--”

“We can ask for their adventures later, Nico,” Will said, tossing his golden bag at the son of Hades. “Come, let us give them some privacy.”

Though, as they made to leave, Freya the cat extricated herself from his one-armed embrace, landing on the floor without a quiet _thump_ , before leaping up on the captain’s desk, observing the whole scene from her perch.

Nico and Will shut the door quietly behind them, leaving only Percy, Annabeth, and their son. 

Propped up against the pillows, Annabeth reached out her arms. “I wish to hold him again,” she said, quietly, still so exhausted. “Please.” 

He acquiesced without hesitation.

Annabeth took him with a sweetly tired smile, bringing him to her chest. Immediately she returned her gaze to the baby, tenderly fingering a stray wisp of hair on the top of his head. 

His breath caught in his throat.

Now he had a better understanding of why the trinity men worshipped a mother.

“What should we name him?” he asked, sitting beside her on the bed.

“I had thought we could call him Perseus,” she said, so taken with the little boy. “A first born son should be named after his father, should he not?” 

He swallowed, his heart fit to burst. He deserved not this woman, nor their son, and yet the gods had seen fit to bless him with both. He could not, however, allow his son to labor under his curse. “I think not,” he said, with only a little regret. “I think very much not.” The first, great Perseus was only related to him by the most distant of circumstances. His own mother had given him the name of the only hero of antiquity who had earned a happier ending than his peers, dying old, in his bed, surrounded by his family, in order to pass some of that same luck onto Percy. He had never considered himself terribly lucky, until this very moment, but his life had been a long, hard one, and he did not want his son to share his fate. Percy did not deserve this family--not yet. When he did, then, perhaps, they could have a child which bore his name. Placing a hand on her shoulder, she turned her head to face him. “Let them say,” said Percy, quoting that old poet, “that he is greater, by far, than his father.” 

Annabeth’s face fell, but she nodded. 

“Alexandros, then,” she said, after a little silence. “Alexandros, for greatness.” 

“Alexandros,” he breathed, looking at the child. Will had wrapped him in a bit of the linen Nico had brought with him, and he was, all told, barely bigger than a loaf of bread. “Alexandros is perfect.” 

“Then be we agreed.” Annabeth said, pulling down her chemise, and helping the baby latch onto her nipple. Percy retrieved the unicorn draught from its place on the floor, opening the stopper, ready and waiting for her. “Alexandros Thalassinos.” 

Beyond the cabin walls, the sea was calm, placid, the ship moving smoothly through the waters towards their final destination, the city on the lagoon. There were many, many things still to be done, money to be exchanged, property to be sought, connections to be forged. What good fortune, then, that they had happened upon Nico di Angelo--the man was surly and ill-tempered, but he had proved himself a good friend and a great ally on many occasions. With his assistance, they would be able to find what they sought in Venice, he was sure of it. 

But that was all to be dealt with later. Now, there was Freya, who leapt from the captain’s desk onto the bed, curiously sniffing at the small thing which now occupied her favorite spot of her mistress’ embrace. Now, there was Annabeth, and Alexandros, sweaty and panting and in dire need of a bath. 

Now, there was his family.

He wrapped an arm around his wife pressing another kiss to her curls. 

“Perfect,” he said. “The greatest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, this chapter brought to you in part (mostly in full) by the magnificent Darkmagyk!! PLEASE be sure to thank her in the comments (or better yet, drop a comment on one of her fics!!!!)
> 
> glossary~~~~:  
> • "Doge": the Venetian specific title for the ruler of the city, from the Latin "Dux," and definitely not the iconic shiba meme which defined a generation  
> • "Mare Nostrum": "our sea," the Mediterranean  
> • "Neapolis": Naples  
> • "Ma ton Dia": "by the gods"  
> • "Boedromios": epithet of Apollo
> 
> and we are done! yep! this is it! we've reached the end! this is absolutely, totally the last chapter, and there definitely isn't an epilogue coming 👀👀👀 we are totally finished and there is no more to this story. nope. nada. niente. nyet. etc


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is very spicey, be warned! 🌶🌶🌶

_Constantinople, 1453_

Even here beneath the waves, down in the darkness of the crushing ocean, all she could smell was smoke. War drums still thundered in her ears. On her lips, she tasted blood and salt--though whether it was the seawater or her tears, she could not say. 

But it was not enough that she had failed to defend the city of Constantinople. It was not enough that she had lost her unit to a man, or had abandoned her post, or had allowed the Ottomans through the _Kerkoporta_ on her watch.

Any one of these things would have branded her a failure--but that the wretched, insufferable, intolerable son of Poseidon had borne witness to it all only turned the knife even deeper, salting the wound and taking pleasure in her misfortune.

To be reduced to a weeping woman like this, taking refuge in his embrace, it was disgraceful. It was nearly as painful as the loss of the city. 

The city… gods above, the _city_.

The heart of the known world. The defense of Europe. The last gasp of the Roman empire. 

Gone.

And all that was left of it was _him._

And so she clung even tighter. 

***

It felt vaguely sacrilegious to be here, holding his hand, beneath the shadow of the temple erected to his father’s defeat. Her siblings would shun her. Her mother would disown her. The earth should have split open and swallowed her whole for such blasphemy.

And yet, it felt so _right_.

They had traveled so many miles together, weathered so many storms and stood against so many monsters. He had followed the Hunters of Artemis all the way to _Mauretania_ , chasing a hazy vision of Annabeth struggling beneath Atlas’ burden. He had returned from certain death, thrown himself before her when she was in danger, had refused the gods’ offer of immortality. Then, even after she had spat in his face, expelling him from her sight, when the world crumbled around them and he could have so easily turned and ran, straight into the arms of the sea, his protection and the source of his power--he had sought her out. 

“If you agree, Annabeth,” he said, strikingly earnest in the way that only he could be, “let us, here and now, tie off these threads of our history, as one would to a tapestry. Let us end this rivalry of ours.” 

Percy had always risked life and limb for her safety. And, she thought, her old shoulder wound itching, she had done the same. They were a team, a partnership. In the absence of their brothers in arms, of their divine parents, of all trappings of the world they once knew, they should stay together. His logic was sound.

“A plan worthy of Athena,” she said. “I agree to your terms.”

That her mother did not immediately emerge from the temple, in all her heavenly glory, to smite her for such an insult was even more proof that her spirit no longer dwelt in this place. Lady Athena had never attempted to hide her distaste for her uncle’s son.

“To think,” he wondered, softly, hazily, “that such a legendary rivalry could have been resolved so easily.”

“It is strange,” she admitted, looking out on the diminished city, the light streaking across wooden roofs and weathered stone, “that along with my mother and our ancestral home, I have lost this as well.” 

As long as she had known him, Percy had been a remarkably consistent presence in his life--in some ways, even more solid than the other foundational truths of her life. Her mother would not always be pleased, her friends may not always return from war, but Percy would always be there to irritate, antagonize, and infuriate her to previously unreached heights. To let that go as well, to be so unmoored… it was frightening. 

“Well,” said Percy, squeezing her hand, a silly little smile crossing his lips, "my first act, in the shedding of our rivalry, is to pledge myself to our future empress, Ana Zabeta Palaiologina." 

_Palaiologina_. The word cut through her in a way she could not quite understand. 

Maidens the world over dreamed of marrying into a family with such prestige, spent every waking moment scheming how best to attach themselves to royalty. Annabeth herself had done the very same thing, not days previously. To ingratiate herself to Thomas and Demetrios would be child’s play for someone with her abilities. 

And yet… she did not want Percy to call her Palaiologina. 

He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed the skin there, gracious, deferential. Or mocking, if the glint in his eye was any indication.

 _Phykios_ , she grumbled to herself.

Pulling her hand back, she wiped it on her dress, hoping to rid her fingers of the hot, tingly sensation which had taken hold.

***

The words echoed in her head, long after they had been spoken aloud, clanging like the bells which sat atop the churches on every corner, inescapable. 

Percy had long since gone to sleep, safe in the strength of their companionship. How easily had he divulged his secrets to her! Were their rivalry still intact, she would now have the precise knowledge she required to ruin him entirely. Alas that the same knowledge which would have brought her victory years ago now brought her to ruin and despair.

 _No mortal woman_.

Again, for what must have been the fifth time since he had fallen asleep, she examined every corner of their conversation, turning each word over for double, triple, twisted meanings, meanings which he may not have even been clever enough to imply. That he had rejected Rachael’s advances, even though she had been a fine marriage prospect, that she had never seen him in the company of another woman, that he had admitted to relations with a man so easily, that he had never pursued her, despite years of questing and friendship and several less-than-obvious hints--it all pointed to one logical, if devastating, conclusion.

Yet there was another side to such a terrible coin. She should not have spent so many years agonizing over her words and actions which had turned his heart from her, for she had never had his heart in the first place, had never had a chance to it. No woman had. Annabeth need not have gone to such lengths, seducing Katya when she had expressed an interest in Percy’s hand, monopolizing his attention, flaunting her femininity before his eyes, for he never would have noticed her at all. 

While Annabeth was beside herself, worrying herself sick over his health and safety, Percy had been languishing in the arms of another man--of a man of the Legion.

She felt so cold, despite the fire, despite her cloak, despite the heat of the summer night which lay upon her, heavy and still. 

None of it had mattered, she was coming to realize. Not the time he had refused immortality, nor the time he had returned from the island of Ogygia, nor the time he had crossed the known world to rescue her from Lukas and the titans. A maiden’s fanciful romance, she had enjoyed imagining that at least some of it may have been for her sake. 

The stars blurred before her eyes, her breath hitching.

No. She would not let herself fall to pieces, in her silent, lonesome revelation. There was no sense in weeping over spilled oil; to mourn for a future which had never been possible was a waste of time and energy.

And yet. Gods above, and yet.

She had so successfully repressed the stunning depths of her feelings for him for years, her stubborn, willful pride refusing to let go of a silly grudge and a terrible misunderstanding. How fitting, then, that it should resurface as soon as she discovered such an avenue had never been available to her.

Sniffing heartily, she scrubbed at her eyes, wiping the tears which had gathered in them.

Do not weep, she told herself. There were more wars to fight, more battles to be won, and matters of the heart did not take precedence, no matter how much they hurt. 

***

Her siblings, as children, always teased her for her fixation on her hair. Blonde was not an unusual color at the _agoge_ , but children of the war goddess were not supposed to be so concerned with such things as physical appearance. That was strictly the purview of the sons and daughters of Aphrodite; Athena’s children were supposed to focus their wits on things far more deserving of their attention than beauty. Beauty was fleeting, ephemeral, intangible--beauty did not win battles. Athena and Aphrodite were always at odds, in this way.

Yet when Annabeth, a child of fourteen years old, one day very shyly sidled up to Silena, having swallowed her pride to ask the older girl for assistance, Silena agreed immediately, without ever having to hear any arguments. “You have always had such lovely hair,” she had cooed, sitting beneath the shadow of one of the olive trees, her hands deftly twisting her thick, curly, unruly hair into sleek, orderly locks. “Many a sibling of mine has lamented that you have been given so many gifts, your tresses not the least among them.”

Annabeth had smiled, pleased. The older she became, the more comments appraising her apparent beauty she received, and she was not always so pleased to receive them, though coming from Silena’s mouth, they seemed much more sincere. “You speak truly?”

“Of course! And it is not only my siblings who say so.” Then, Silena had leaned over, slipping Annabeth a sly wink. “I have heard tell that a certain son of Poseidon has expressed quite a particular admiration for it as well.”

Indignant, she had squawked, lightly smacking her friend, while Silena tittered, very prettily. “Cease with such falsehood! I know you do nothing but jest!”

“It is no falsehood, _korie,_ ” she had said, pulling on a curly forelock. “Carlo has told me how he often speaks of you in such flattering tones. One would think he had decided to court you already!” And then she had laughed again, gaily, delighted--but never mocking.

Flushing, Annabeth’s heart had begun to pound as she considered the potential truth of such a statement, that Percy had spoken of her that way. Recently, she had developed a rather peculiar set of reactions to Percy’s presence: flushed cheeks, pounding heart, an absence of all her faculties so that she, at times, became nearly as foolish as he.

She did not like those feelings. Not at all. 

“Can you teach me,” she had said instead, unwilling to dwell on such strange emotion, for such things were so obviously beneath her, “how you wove your hair so skillfully the other day?”

“Of course,” Silena had said, a knowing glint in her eyes. “In fact, I will teach you one better. My siblings say that this particular braid is supposed to resemble the tail of a mermaid.”

Annabeth had practiced the skill for years, long before and long after the moment she had divined what those feelings of hers had truly meant. The mermaid’s tail, however, had not caught its mark--nor had any of the other simple or complex plaits she had mastered and perfected. By the time she was old enough to begin covering her hair, as older girls were meant to do, it seemed that there was nothing she could do with her hair to entice a particular man’s gaze, nor with any other part of her.

Of course, now she understood why.

How cruel were the Fates, that they had finally given her what she had so fervently desired, Percy’s hands in her hair, at such a terrible, unromantic time! 

Still, he treated her with all delicacy and respect as he quite crudely hacked away at her gathered hair, sawing off all traces of her femininity. Annabeth was not endowed with so much in her hips nor her breasts; her hair was certainly the most obviously feminine part about her, thus with its removal, she would be better able to pass for a man, and be better kept safe from marauding bandits with evil, grasping hands. 

It was sound logic, yes. But it was not her only goal. 

She closed her eyes, measuring her breathing so as to keep the rapid war-drum of her heart from alerting the other party. All she could smell was the comforting salt scent which seemed to engulf her, like the warm embrace of the sea on a sunny day.

With a tug, then, it was done. “There,” said her companion. “It is finished.”

How odd, she thought, to feel air on her neck, so cold and exposed. “Well?” she asked, turning round before she let fear get the better of her. “Am I sufficiently boyish?”

He looked on her so oddly, his face a strange concoction of overlapping emotions, coalescing into a furrowing of his handsome brow, a pursing of his lips which still sent her into madness if she should consider them for too long. _Please_ , she nearly prayed, as though she could change his mind from the force of her want alone. _Am I as beautiful as all the boys in Rome? Am I someone you could love?_

It seemed he had learned quite a bit of tact in their years apart, for he relieved her of her little fantasy ever so gently. “I am not certain,” he said, careful, deliberate, “you could pass as a man--though, perhaps you could be seen as a particularly delicate one.”

Her foolish wish shattered, as glass hurled against a wall.

Well. What was done was done. With a snap and an appeal to his gentlemanly nature, she sent him away so that she could pilfer a dead man’s clothes--and mourn her childish dreams--in peace. 

***

Something in the air, the cold snap of it, the feeling as though one were breathing in pure ice, little shards of glass tickling the lungs and stomach--she had not realized just how much she had missed it. Of course the summer nights of the south were pleasant and fair, but there was something so sublime in the frigidity, the freezing, the ice in her fingers and the heat in her cheeks.

And, truth be told, something to say of her traveling companion as well.

Percy had been… nothing short of a miracle. Ripped far from his home, from everything he had ever known, and from his great Roman love (she thought to herself, with an internal scowl), he had been, the whole time, staunch, stalwart, solid. A better companion she could not have asked for, nor a better friend.

She told him as such, and distantly enjoyed the way his face flushed, ever so lightly. Tanned a deep, dark brown by the sun and by his natural coloring, it was sometimes difficult to tell what he was thinking, but she knew him well enough now. Had known him well enough for years. 

He was very, very close now. For warmth, they had begun drifting closer together, their bodies’ natural attempts to stave off the bitter, northern cold. 

She saw his eyes flick down to her lips.

No, she told herself firmly, no. He did not want for her advances. She had done everything she could to demonstrate her interest, short of simply throwing herself at him, and he had never risen for a single one. Annabeth and Percy were simply not meant to be, and no amount of forced companionship could change that.

For a brief, agonizing heartbeat, she thought she saw him twitch closer. 

Then, from the corner of her eyes--light. “Percy, look!” she gasped.

 _Ásbrú,_ the rainbow bridge, pierced through the night sky as a blade through water, a burning ribbon of color, near as bright as the moon itself, even more beautiful than in her wildest imaginations. Though she knew well its existence, the bridge had never presented itself to her, not as the mountain of Olympus had. To see it now, it felt like stepping through a silk curtain, passing some invisible line. It felt like a rush of bloodlust, a guttural roar, like a warm fire and the hot curl of mead in her stomach.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmured.

It felt like coming home. 

***

How little her father had changed. 

Politics was certainly not his area of interest, but he threw himself into his work as passionately as he had with the histories of Anglia and Gallia. His collections of papers, books, and pamphlets of various sizes and subjects were dizzyingly well-researched, a kind of organized chaos which resonated within her, every piece of information in its precise place, even if the place was incomprehensible to others. However, she could sense how little he cared for it.

“My dear,” he said, exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders, “I am afraid there is not much else that I can do. Mary tells me the Totts are growing more and more insistent--and they are merely the kindest about it. Word of both your reappearance and your inheritance has spread far faster than either of us had suspected it would, and we are expected to reply to a demand.”

Annabeth had returned to Svealand, it seemed, in the middle of quite the precarious situation. In the years since she had escaped her monastic doom, there had been no less than three separate kings who had ruled over the joining of northern lands: one deposed, one dead, and one perilously close to danger. Now the union had split apart, and had been at war with itself, with no signs of stopping. 

Like many, many noble girls, Annabeth was being paraded around for marriage. At first, when she learned her mad uncle Randulf had left her some properties and the like, she had been oddly touched. She had never known the man personally, nor his children, who had died by some supernatural force whilst she had been roaming the European countryside, but she supposed it had been a final act of some charity, some avuncular affection for his brother’s daughter--yet, after she had learned what the inheritance had brought with it, she wished her uncle had given it to Magnus instead. Or at the very least, kept it to himself. 

At least her father was equally upset at this turn of events, if not more so. 

“Understand me well, Anja,” he said, his voice thick with fear and worry, “were it up to me, I would never allow it. If I had known you would have been subjected to the predatory whims of the blue-blooded fools in Uppsala, I would have never prayed for your return. I did not get you back just to lose you to--”

“I understand, papa,” she interrupted, gently. It would do neither of them to lose their heads at this time. “Of course I understand.”

“The rebellion is growing, and it is powerful. I do not think it will be very long until _Karl Bonde_ is overthrown, but I worry this land cannot undergo any further crises. To see you enmeshed in such bloody business is one of my deepest, darkest fears, and yet…” He then put his head in his hands, the picture of defeat. “I see no way out of this.”

For her part, Annabeth could think of a few ways, each more distasteful than the last, full of lies and conceit. If she knew she would be forced to be married after all, she would have done more to convince Percy to take her to the _Morea_.

Then, a thought occurred to her. An idea. A magnificent, inspired plan. A dirty, sordid trick.

“What if…” she said slowly, considering. The next few words out of her mouth could determine a whole host of things, be they pleasant or or unpleasant. She had to speak carefully. “What if I were already married?”

He raised his head, peering at her curiously. “Are you--?”

“No, no,” she assured him. “Certainly not.” Not for a lack of trying, anyway.

Still, he looked thoughtful. “That is a clever idea,” he mused, rubbing his chin, “though I suppose they would then question why we did not think to mention it sooner.”

No doubt her stepmother had paraded about her unmarried status to all who would hear her. “We could say I was married in the eastern church. Perhaps that could explain the irregularity.”

“Perhaps.” Her father sounded doubtful. “I fear, however, that without a union in this church, it would not be recognized as legitimate.”

Seated in her chair, her foot tapped against the floor, quite unbecoming of a lady. Her fingers twitched in her lap, blood pulsing. “Then I suppose my ersatz husband and I must be married again.”

He nodded. “I see… yes, I see. And have you someone in mind for the role?”

It came tumbling out of her mouth so quickly, she ought to have been embarrassed. “Percy.”

“Your friend from the _agoge_?” 

Upon her return, she had relayed a number of stories to her family of her adventures--and of course, nearly all of them included Percy. They had all been privy to tales of his nobility, honor, and gentlemanly nature; surely there would be no reason for her father to refuse the idea. 

She swallowed, a knot of terror in her stomach.

“Percy,” he said again, “yes, I do believe this could work.”

At his assent, Annabeth nearly collapsed. 

“Another brilliant idea, my dear,” said her father, fondness suffusing every word, “though I cannot say I am surprised. Even as a child, your mother’s influence shone through quite clearly.”

Were she of a crueler, colder nature, Annabeth could have walked away right there and then, freedom solidly within her grasp, in a form most pleasing to her. Percy’s hand in marriage--the dream of many a girl in the _agoge_. She could leave it at that, and be done with the whole affair.

But. But. 

“I will speak to him on the morrow, then,” he said, gathering up his files. “Is there anything else you would like to discuss?”

“Just--” she blurted, heat rushing to her face. “Only--promise me, papa, that we will not move forward without his consent to the match. I do not… I would never wish to force his hand in this manner.”

She may have had him in her grasp, but she loved him too much to keep him there. 

But, she vowed, as long as Percy was beside her, she would never be able to marry another man, not a lord nor a king nor an emperor--for what were any of these compared to her prince of the sea?

***

She silenced the little voice of doubt in her mind, cast aside all thoughts of fear or nerves. 

Percy had agreed to marry her, and, all told, it had taken very little convincing, as she had suspected--his nobility was well-documented and unflagging. He would never have left her to such a horrid fate if he thought he could do something to save her.

It did not make her feel better.

But, in the end, they were married in the local church, in a simple, unfussy ceremony. Annabeth wore blue for the occasion, a garment of her own creation, and a garland of flowers, as was custom. Percy, of course, was unfairly handsome as always, his eyes lighting up when he first saw her, and when he kissed her, as the ceremony required, she allowed herself to pretend for one beautiful, beautiful moment, that he had kissed her of his own volition. 

She was smiling as she pulled away, carried off by the fantasy, even as she could tell he worked very hard to keep his composure. It would not do to show open disgust at his own wedding, she surmised.

They were forced to kiss once more by her dastardly cousins, Magnus cheering and jeering and egging them on until they participated in the little wedding game devised by Alejandro. Her cousin was far more empathetic than many people realized, and though she had never spoken of it to him, she was almost certain Magnus knew the truth of her feelings, and had decided to play a cruel trick on her. If only it did not make her heart tremble so!

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending upon the perspective, she could not dwell on it for very long. The marriage bed awaited them. 

Her family accompanied them there, to see her off on this final portion of the path to womanhood. Magnus and Alejandro were still quite inebriated, but her father was sober as could be, embracing his daughter warmly. “Tell me, Anja,” he whispered to her, in their language. “Do you love him?”

Athena would only have chosen the cleverest of men with whom to create a child. Of course he had uncovered the truth of it.

She nodded into his chest, and he held her even tighter. “I am glad,” he said. “I am so glad.”

Then releasing her, he nodded to her husband--her _husband_ \--and he left them alone with the marriage bed.

The two of them had shared a bed several times during their journey. It should not have affected her so--but there was a slight, yet significant, distinction between a bed shared by two friends, and one shared by a husband and wife. A distinction she could no longer ignore. A distinction which Percy, too, seemed well aware of. 

A distinction which, unfortunately, changed the nature of their relationship. 

The trinity men believed a marriage was not valid until intercourse had occurred--the rule held even more strongly for those of the nobility. Percy and Annabeth shared no such inane assumptions, of course, but they were beholden to a different set of rules, now. To please the land-grabbing nobles of Svealand, they would have to consummate the marriage.

Annabeth wished she could say she explained the matter plainly and calmly, and that Percy had accepted her logic without much fuss, and they had gone to bed in order to fulfill the silly contract set out for them.

In reality, that was not how it had gone.

She had fallen to pieces, dissolving into tears, so intense he had had to hold her, and she could not even enjoy the feeling of his arms around her, so ashamed was she by her display of emotions. Haltingly, punctuated by sobs and hiccups, she explained her case, and all but begged him to make love to her.

And he did. Because he was a noble man.

And it was just as wonderful as she had always imagined it.

He finished inside of her, glorious and copious, and she could have died in that moment, so full of him, she might never be empty again.

But the truth swiftly fell upon her like a sword: she had coerced, tricked, and beguiled a good man into her bed, a man who did not, and would never, love her. She felt cold all over, from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her toes, still wrapped around him. 

It was done. They were married. And Annabeth had never felt worse. 

Not even sleep could soothe her, for that night, she had a most frightening dream. 

In her dream, she stands upon a stone hill, overlooking a little town. From the rocks beneath her burbles forth a spring, salty and strong, and beside, an olive tree, of thick trunk and golden branches. Before her, there is a king, his body compounded of a man and a serpent, and there is a god, he who is the wave and the storm and the thunder of hoofbeats, and she, too, is a god, she who is the owl and the spear and the shield who strikes terror in the hearts of men, and the king delivers judgement onto them. He says then to the wave and the storm, “The people have spoken, and their choice is clear. This land shall be ceded to the goddess.”

“Bah!” scoffs the god, the rumble of the earth in his breath. “You would insult me so, who cares for your sailors and delivers them home unharmed?”

“Cecrops has spoken, uncle,” she says, in a voice not her own, silver and gold and unyielding. “The Oracle has given the people of this city the power to choose their patron, and chosen they have. You, who lay claim to the bounty of waves and the power of the sea, will you not allow me this little hill? Will you not respect their judgement, and go in peace?”

But the god frowns, his thick brows drawing together above the typhoon in his eyes, and he brandishes his weapon, the three-pronged trident which had split the very earth itself. “I shall go,” he says, as the crash of water on the shore, “I shall leave you the city--but be warned, _glaukopis_ , and be wary, king, for you and your people have made a powerful enemy on this day.” 

“No, uncle,” she says, commanding and columnar, the sound and the fury and the cry of triumph, bolstered by the land which now belongs to her, and the people who are already worshipping in her name, an ever present _thrum_ in the core of her being. “It is you who has made a powerful enemy.”

He glowers, the black, heavy clouds of the horizon, and he strikes the stone with his weapon, and from that spring which had been his gift, now becomes his curse, a mighty wave pouring forth from the earth itself, powerful and unyielding as the hundred foot waves and the stampede of horses, rising up as the sea itself, flooding the plain and the people and the king and the goddess, burying it all beneath the sand and the water, but still the stone hill remains, and still the olive tree stands upon it, its branches stretching towards the sky, defiant, willful. It stands, proud, rooted, planted, immovable, immutable. 

Permanent.

***

Annabeth had dreamed of married life with Percy for far, far longer than she was willing to admit. In her dreams, she had imagined it to be endless fun, endless bickering, and endless bliss.

It was none of those things. 

He did not love her, nor any woman. He’d married her to secure her hand away from squabbling lords and wicked step mothers, and possibly for the financial security of her land--she did not blame him for it, of course. Such a large favor demanded an equal reward, and if any man deserved to rest on his laurels it was Percy. She was happy to take care of him, but as the days dragged on, she wondered if that was what was happening at all.

Marriage seemed to have drained all the light out of Percy. He floated around the manor, gray and listless, speaking rarely, and then mostly to Alejandra. They shared a bed, closer than ever before, and yet, she was not sure she’d ever felt so distant. He looked at her, yet she was not certain he saw anything at all. 

She tried to entice him to enjoy the finer things, offering to hunt with him as Alejandro had, suggesting that they go for a trip around the lake, even attempting to arrange for them to visit his new holding, so he might see where they were to make their estate. Each advance was summarily turned down. He resisted meals together, and ate very little. He retired to bed early, and stayed in after she’d gotten up. 

Once, desperate and sad, she even asked him to join her to view the beauty of the midnight sky. It was an indulgent thing, but she thought only the night sky could compare with him in beauty, and she wished to see it all up close. 

He declined. 

He did not even seem to notice when she found herself ill several mornings in a row. He slept for much of the time these days, but it still hurt--once upon a time, he had been so quick to observe her. 

Her maidservant tutted as she instructed a chamber girl to take the chamber pot into which Annabeth had vomited away. She was a middle aged woman who had served Annabeth’s aunt, and was rather eager to have another woman in the family, because Alejandra did not like having a personal servant to help with dressing for reasons Annabeth understood, but that was not well known beyond the family. After the pot had been emptied and the dirtied linen had been delivered to the laundry, she had helped Annabeth into her gown.

Annabeth had not engaged any servants in Constantinople, obviously, nor at the _agoge_ , and could lace her stays perfectly well, yet there was something delightful about having assistance. The gowns here were heavier, after all, the fabric much thicker and the detailing far finer. Not having to do it all herself was a relief, as was someone to clean the room and cook the food. 

“Will you and the master be moving to your estate before or after your babe is born, ma’am?” asked the maidservant.

Stunned, all she could say, was a single, inelegant, “What?”

“I know you were inquiring with the steward about going and surveying them, and the houses,” said the older woman. “But no one was sure what you’d found.”

Slowly, like the pieces of a good strategy, the woman’s meaning began to make itself clear: Percy, her master, and the estate her dowry, now transferred to her husband, where they would have to move sooner or later. “We have not yet gone,” Annabeth said. Percy had not wanted to. “We have not yet gone,” Annabeth repeated, because she could not quite understand the last part of the maid’s question. 

“Then, if Lord Magnus and Doña Alejandra will have it, best stay here until the baby is born. You and your husband can have some time then to engage the household. My brother in law would be a good candidate for steward, ma’am. He’s learned in his letters, can write anything the master might need, even in Latin.”

“Percy can write Latin,” Annabeth said distractedly. 

“Oh, of course, ma’am. I should expect nothing less of a prince.”

Annabeth could not even begin to parse that statement. Percy was, technically, a prince, but that status was kept even from the small group of people who still kept the heathen gods in her cousin's house, and this woman was not one of those. But--“What baby?” she asked, instead of interrogating the woman what she knew of Percy. 

Her servant blinked, and paused in her lacing, just above Annabeth’s stomach. She gave a kind of condescending smile which would have normally rubbed Annabeth all the wrong way, but she was too struck with terror by the implication. “Well,” she said, speaking as though Annabeth were a little girl, “you can never quite tell before the quickening, of course. However, it has been seven weeks since your monthly, and five since your wedding. Now you have fallen ill in the morning,” She had a twinkle in her eye. “I won’t be getting anyone in trouble, but there has been lots of talk, given how taken you and your prince are with each other, for how long it would be before you’d be with child. Such a joyous occasion is to be celebrated, even if perhaps it wouldn’t do to go around announcing it just yet. For safety's sake."

Her blood rushing, the ocean in her ears, with almost trembling hands, Annabeth touched at her belly. Nothing felt different beneath the layers of fabric.

It had not occurred to her it could even be a possibility. Percy had only laid with her once, on their wedding night, and only at her insistence. Now that the idea had entered her head, it began to grow, taking shape in her mind and her heart. Just like Percy’s seed in her womb. 

Percy’s child. She could give Percy a child. 

That happy thought carried her for several more weeks, as she monitored the signs and tried to find the perfect time to speak with him, to get him to visit their land, so she might show him his fortune and share the news that she would give him an heir for it as well. 

Men wanted sons, she knew. Perhaps, perhaps with luck Annabeth could still win him, could give him money and a son, and earn a little of his affection in return. 

As the days turned longer, still his mood did not improve, until one day after the morning meal, she prodded him to eat more, so she could then take him out to see all that was his. 

He told her instead that he wished to leave. Leave Svealand, his newly acquired land, and leave her, too. 

Struck with panic and despair, still she would not resort to cheap ploys. She fell back to the tricks that always worked with Percy: a little bullying, a lot of logic, and a refusal to let him go without her. 

By the end of the week, then, the plan was set. Once again, she would set out for lands unknown, leaving her father and her family behind, with no assurance she would ever see them again. This time, however, she was able to give her a proper farewell--and to tell him her suspicions. 

He embraced her, his joy overtaking his sorrow, and she embraced him in turn. 

To leave once before nearly rent her in two. Leaving him now was sorrowful, yes, but startlingly simple. The road would be long, and hard, and dangerous, but she was going to have Percy’s child. She was going to find her mother.

Let all manner of horrors just try and stop her. 

***

She was beginning to understand why her mother had sworn to remain a chaste goddess.

Pregnancy was a truly nightmarish invention. Between the nausea, the soreness, the constant need to relieve herself, the inability to use the full spectrum of her wits in the manner to which she had been accustomed, she was well and truly suffering--to say nothing of the incessant, unending, all consuming lust which would strike her at the most inopportune times. The wind could merely change direction, and she would suddenly be aflame with carnal desire, aching for the touch of her husband in her most private, feminine parts, unable to think for the haze of want and need.

It was maddening. Utterly, utterly maddening.

Then, her hand would come to rest on her stomach, and it all would fade away at the mere thought of the child inside of her. Percy’s child. Their child.

Their son, she prayed.

And oh, how she prayed for a son, a little boy with wild black hair and eyes the color of the sea in the sunlight, who drooled in his sleep and loved his mother above all other women!

Concern gripped her, then, cold fingers around her heart. 

What did Annabeth know of being a mother?

She had only met her true mother a handful of times, and had barely ever received an ounce of affection from her. Her father’s wife had been the sworn enemy of her childhood, the two of them always at odds, until it had reached its boiling point, and Annabeth had taken her chances with the wild. The most she knew of motherhood had been what little she had been able to glean from Percy’s mother, Sarah, who had been more than happy to share the secrets of her trade--yet she could have spent a lifetime under Sarah’s tutelage, and still she feared it would not be enough. 

Annabeth was not a kind, nurturing person by nature. Hard rather than soft, sharp rather than gentle, none who had ever known her would have ever imagined her to be a mother. In truth, as a young girl, Annabeth had not even imagined it for herself. A warrior woman, a daughter of Athena: she had been so sure that she had been destined for greater things than marriage and children.

How foolish she had been.

Wives and mothers won wars in ways that Athena herself could not even conceive of. When she considered motherhood now, she thought of Mary, her father’s wife, moving money and bodies on a chessboard of titanic proportions. She thought of Sarah, who had labored every day beneath the notice of the men around her to provide and care for her son, to teach him what he would need to know to defeat the titan lord. 

Now she better understood why Hera, queen of the heavens, had also been the patroness of mothers.

Annabeth would do everything in her power, she swore, to shore up influence around their little family, to ensure that they were safe and secure and comfortable in all ways, both seen and unforeseen. And, well, if Percy would not accept her affection, as was his right, then at the very least, she would be able to give it to their son. 

***

He was perfect. By all the gods above, he was absolutely perfect. 

Her son. _Their_ son. Little Alexandros. 

She had so wanted to name him ‘Perseus,’ not after the slayer of the gorgon, but instead the hero of Olympus. No matter her personal feelings, for all that he had done, Percy deserved to be immortalized with the best of the heroes, for he _was_ the best of the heroes--no, the _better_ of all of them--and he deserved to have his name and his legacy passed on.

But, alas, it was not meant to be. Percy, gentle as could be, rejected the name for their son, and so they had settled on Alexandros.

He had been right, to her great surprise. Alexandros, the name, was perfect.

“The ship’s crew are in a tizzy,” was Nico’s greeting the day after her son’s birth, and nearly three years since they had last seen him.

Glibly, she said, “I had not meant to give birth aboard.” 

“That is not the issue,” he said, his eyes locked on Percy. “They have noticed we are, apparently, traveling at a much faster pace than we should be.” 

“Do they not wish to reach Venice in a timely manner?” Percy asked, before busying himself with her shawl, though she had assured him she was warm enough. 

Nico’s eyes had not left him, piercing. “They are wondering if it is an ill omen.” 

“They should be happy that the new mother and her child will be in safety soon,” was her husband’s only response.

“Yes,” Nico nodded, “about that…” He trailed off, eyes boring into her now, brimming with so many questions. 

“You promised you would not pester them so soon,” Will scolded, though he had a smile in his voice. 

“Well you cannot expect me not to wonder at such extraordinary circumstances.”

Annabeth did not remember Nico and Will being particularly friendly during their days at camp; in fact, she distinctly recalled Nico running away from any sort of friendship at the first chance he could. He had been a surly, combative young man, with his stony glare and frightening aura. That he had attracted a friend as sunny and cheerful as Will was nothing short of a minor miracle, and that they tolerated each other enough for light teasing was quite the achievement.

In her memory, Niccolo di Angelo was still a skinny little thing, carrying an ancient, profane sword too big for his body, following Percy about like a lost puppy. She would confess to not knowing much about the young man, but she was certain she would have remembered if he had been a noble--yet somehow, the revelation that he was a count had completely blindsided her, with a fortune fit for the son of the god of wealth. 

“Well, what of your story?” she asked, adjusting her position to better support her sleeping child. “We have not seen you for nearly three years.”

He raised a brow, familiar disdain on his face. “I reside in the city.”

Oh. Well, then. Annabeth had sort of been under the impression that he lived in the Underworld, with his father. “Truly?”

“My mother was a countess,” he said, “many years ago, and, with some light forgeries, I was able to access her estate, as her sole living descendent.”

Many, many years ago, on their very first quest, Percy and Annabeth had sought to take refuge in a large tavern, only to discover it to be the den of the Lotus-Eaters, whose power stole time away from one’s perception, seducing them with food and wine and cards and dice to trap them there completely. Though they had not realized it at the time, Nico and his sister had been trapped in the same establishment, stashed there by an Underworldian associate some seventy or so years prior. How strange it must have been for him, to emerge into a world he could no longer recognize, and all his family long since perished.

But Nico would not be moved. “Our tale is long and tedious by comparison, but yours--now that has piqued my interest. I understand you and your husband were still in the city on the eve of its fall?”

“We fled as the walls were overrun,” she said. “We had thought to make straight for the _agoge,_ but when we arrived, it had vanished, as if it had never been there at all.”

He frowned. “Yes, it had gone by the time we had arrived as well. Afterwards, then, Will and I traveled to Aachen, to speak to the Legion. I would have thought you would have gone as well.” He turned his eyes to Percy. “Iason sends his greetings, by the way.”

Clenching her teeth, she busied herself with something on Alexandro’s blanket, so she would not open her mouth and say something particularly foolish.

“We traveled to Thera, and to Athens, first, to try and contact our divine parents” said Percy. Annabeth did not think she could detect any changes in his voice, any hints of longing or the like, but she heard nothing--though that, in itself, did not necessarily indicate much. “Once we were unable to reach them, we decided to travel to Annabeth’s homeland in the North, to return her to her father.”

“A successful journey, I take it?” 

Lightly, Will swatted him. 

“After our marriage, then,” Percy went on, “we thought it best to return to the South.”

“And Venice?” he asked. “Have you any family here?”

Percy cast her a sideways glance, one she could not quite parse. “We… wondered if, perhaps, the gods had landed here,” he admitted, in a low voice, “after they fled the city of Constantine.”

“We have not seen hide nor hair of them,” said Will. “Nico has not even been able to contact his father."

Percy’s eyes widened. “Lord Hades has gone, too?”

“It seems so,” Nico said, looking pensive. “The ancient doorways have moved as well: the River Styx, the Door of Orpheus, and others.”

“The only clue we have is a message imparted to us in dreams from our parents,” said Percy, “the city of old soldiers.”

Will straightened in his seat. “I, too, have had such a dream.”

“As well, there also was a vision from my mother. In this city, she said there is a church, green and white with a red dome. Have you ever heard of such a place?”

Nico hummed, thoughtful. “Possibly. I was delivered a different clue, it seems: Zagreus and Thanatos, blood and death, appeared to me in a dream, and bade me to seek the birthplace of fire itself.”

As one, they frowned, turning over their words as though they had been handed one of Rachael’s prophecies. As one, they all came up empty. “Well,” said Will, after some time, “I do not believe we shall divine an answer today. There is another riddle I have in mind, one quite simpler: Percy, Annabeth, have you a place to stay in the city?”

With little persuasion, Nico had been insistent that they stay with him for the time being, in his large _palazzo_. When Annabeth was feeling better, he swore, Nico would show them all his available properties--for, of course, he had several--and that they would discuss rent at that time. Quickly and expediently on their arrival, he arranged for his staff to move their things, and granted them use of his beautifully appointed rooms, a separate one for each of them, down the hall from each other. In an uncharacteristic stroke of compassion, she thought, he had even located a wet nurse for Alexandros. Though Annabeth was loath to part with him during the day, she found it to be a godsent at night, even after only a week, allowing her the sleep she so desperately needed.

Percy proclaimed the procurement right and good, but it took her several days to realize he wanted to relieve her of her son. “Let Nico handle it,” he said, fussing over her, “you should rest.”

Days turned to months, and he let Nico handle a great many things. He spent hours holed up in Nico’s study, discussing matters of economics, travel, and management, as the Conte di Angelo poured his resources into a new business venture--a shipping company, financed by Nico and overseen by Percy.

The months stretched on into a year, and predictably, Percy had already seen great growth and investment from some other bankers and merchants in the city, what with his ability to not only turn the seas in his favor and outrun any marauding raiders, but also to simply discern the best days to sail, to predict weather patterns and wave directions. 

She always knew he’d be superbly successful at this line of work--even without his father’s blessings.

Annabeth, meanwhile, had not been sitting idly by. Once again, with Nico’s assistance, she had entered the expatriate community of Constantinople, rubbing elbows with certain persons who would not have even deigned to look her way, had they known her before, in the fallen city itself. Now that she was moneyed and married to a very important shipping contractor, a whole world of politics had opened itself to her strategic ways, though she largely tried to avoid the thorniest problems. Even now, there were whispers of what to do with the poor princess Zoe, how they might set her up in marriage with a Roman prince or Northern lord, and grow their strength and finances until they had mustered enough of a force to retake the city of Constantine.

Even with all her newfound money and influence, unfortunately the men of the community did not often take her thoughts into consideration--unsurprisingly. 

Besides, she was a mother now. She had a child, and a new sympathy for Zoe’s plight. Were it her decision, she would recommend that they leave the young lady alone. 

Annabeth could not say that she liked her new friends. They were pleasant enough people, and provided ample stimulating conversation, but many had never known the feel of a weapon in their hands or had tasted their own blood, never mind that they were all, of course, Christian. Oh, there were a few children of the gods here and there, one or two legacies of the Legion, but they were few and far between.

Percy was not always working, but he was not one to be confined to the home. He adored the city, and the city adored him right back, filling him with a kind of life and energy she had not seen since those few, halcyon months after the second Titanomachy. He was thriving in Venice, not just financially, but emotionally--and physically. Somehow, in the year since they had arrived, he had grown even more handsome, merry and always flushed with laughter after he returned from Nico’s residence. 

A part of it pained her to see him thrive among the Latins where he had only shriveled up in her own homeland. He had not looked poorly in Svealand, of course--Percy could not ever look poorly--but there he had been so sour and withdrawn and cold, and here he very nearly burst with life. After weighing the differences between there and here, she could only conclude that the greatest changes in his life had been the lack of snow, and the presence of a companion he liked better.

Not her, of course.

When she was feeling less charitable, it seemed to her as though her husband spent every waking moment with the count. They were an odd trio, Percy, Nico, and his doctor friend Will. At the beginning, she had thought Percy was exercising some latent protective tendencies over the count. She knew he still harbored no small amount of guilt over the death of his sister, many years past; the man of noble character that he was, of course he would want to see that Nico was well taken care of. It was one of the things she loved most about him.

Then they became business partners, a sound financial move. Then they began to spend the bulk of their time together. Then, during the Carnival season, Annabeth had heard them stumbling into her house together, no doubt having just come from the raucous festivities which had captured the whole city, tittering like a couple of young girls. 

Things began to piece themselves together after that.

“The next time we travel to Aachen, you and Percy should accompany us,” Will said, extending an invitation for which she had a distinct feeling only came from him, at supper one night, while Percy and Nico were out overseeing some new contract or other. “I know Iason and Franko always ask after Percy; I suspect they would be very pleased to meet you.”

Franko, perhaps, she thought to herself, but certainly not Iason. Annabeth very much doubted he would be pleased to make his acquaintance with the woman who had stolen his great love from him, trapping him with a phony marriage and an unplanned child. 

The children of the elder gods had a kind of undeniable sway; Annabeth had felt it for herself. How darkly amusing, she thought, that not even Percy was immune to its influence, having attached himself not only to the son of Jupiter, but the son of Hades as well.

“I should be very pleased to meet them as well,” she replied, sipping on a cup of tea. 

She would not, but she had no real recourse to refuse. 

Annabeth had made her deal with the devil, and now she reaped the rewards: her son’s love, her friends’ affections, her social standing, and her husband’s indifference. If she had to meet another of her romantic rivals, she would do so with all the grace and poise her station required of her.

Even if she would rather die.

***

_Venice, 1455_

The distance from Conte di Angelo’s residence was a little farther than she would have liked. Most days, she would have taken a gondola all the way from the _palazzo_ to their little house, but today, she needed time to think. What better way to do so, she supposed, than by strolling through the _Piasa San Marco_. 

Annabeth adored the square: the red stone with its straight, white lines, the beautiful arches on the surrounding buildings, and of course, the church which dominated the eastern end. Mammoth and blocky it was, yet it reminded her so strongly of the old St. Sophia, from the golden walls which shone in the morning sun to the grand domes which rose above it. The domes still had their weight borne by expertly decorated pendentives, each surface layered with gold and portraits in the style of Eastern Romans, hideous, of course, yet comforting in its familiarity. Whenever she walked around inside the building, pretending as though she were observing the rites of the Christians and ignoring the scandalous gazes of older women as she went about with her hair only lightly covered, a complex crown of braids piled upon her head, she felt as though she were inside of a great, golden jewelry box, fit for an empress. It was not, she thought, the church of Sarah’s dream, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

She did not enter the church today, but stayed outside of it, settling herself in one of the arches of the surrounding buildings, observing the strange procession of Christian men as they passed, their steps and their songs hypnotic, in their own way. Annabeth was no expert in the rituals of the trinity, but even to her untrained eyes and ears, the differences between such displays of piety on the part of the fathers, and the rituals and regimens of the eastern patriarchs were stark, almost exaggerated. 

Some days, she missed Constantinople and the _agoge_ so much it ached. The good St. Mark, despite its Latin trappings, helped her to feel a little less lonely. 

And her son, of course.

Even thinking of her son, she could not help but smile. Little Alexandros. Already he took so much after his father, his same dark hair and green eyes and large nose. He would grow up to be very, very handsome, she could already tell. To her great delight, he was just as attached to her as she was to him, eschewing the nursemaids and nannies for Annabeth instead. He was her great comfort while Percy was out conducting business on the water, the little piece of him that he had left with her.

Annabeth loved her son, more than nearly anything else in the world. All of her immediate peers, however, they had large, sprawling, enormous families. Annabeth, with her single child, simply could not compete, and she so hated to lose. Was she merely lonely? Jealous, of the family ideal? Perhaps. 

But even besides… she still loved Percy. Even though he had barely so much as looked on her ever since they arrived. He was a decent husband and a magnificent father, and she wanted to give him more. She wanted more for herself. 

And selfishly, she wanted him to touch her once again. She could no longer satisfy herself, not when the sense memory of his fingers inside of her still haunted her dreams.

So, she had gone to the count in order to petition him for the use of her husband.

Nico had only stared at her, flabbergasted.

“...Come again?” he had asked.

In her finest dress to prop up her ego, she had once again repeated her request. “I know you and my husband are involved,” she had said, her head raised high, “but one child is not enough for a family of our class. He will need an heir, of course, as well as daughters for dowries and sons to carry on the business. I can provide those for him.”

Yes, Annabeth could--and not Nico. This was the keystone of her strategic brilliance, a body which could bear children. 

Still, he had stared at her, more confused than ever. “I… Signora, I do not understand.”

What was so confusing? “Your excellency,” she had said, ready to try again, “I have come to you today to--”

“No, no, I understand that,” he had said. “You have made your request quite clear. My confusion is thus: why do you feel the need to petition _me_ for children, when you could very easily ask your husband?”

“Because…” Was he being deliberately foolish in order to mock her? “Well--because, you two are…”

He had raised an eyebrow. “We are what?”

Gods above, was he going to force her to say it?

“I think, perhaps, you may have misunderstood the nature of our relationship, Anna Elisabetta,” he had said, dryly. 

“With respect, sir,” she had replied, “do not mistake me for one of the trinity zealots of this city. I know what heroes do when they keep company with each other.” 

He had frowned, befuddled. “You… are you implying that your husband and I--”

“I, too, have kept company with women,” she had said, quickly, suddenly worried he would take her words as an insult, “and I would never seek to cast judgement.”

Then, he had done something she never expected.

He had laughed.

“I beg your pardon?”

He only laughed harder. 

So uncivilized, she had thought, her irritation growing by the second.

“I can certainly say,” he finally said, when he regained his wits, though stray chuckles still escaped every now and then, “that this was not what I was expecting.”

It had been odd to see him laugh. Odd, but not unpleasant. Truly, he had a lovely laugh, the dourness falling from his countenance. It was not difficult to see why Percy might be so taken with him. 

“Oh, Annabeth,” said the count, “I do not know what mist has deceived you, for it can only be through magical means that you do not recognize just how deeply Percy loves you.”

He had sent her away shortly thereafter, to seek out her husband, and ponder on his words, which was how she found herself at the church of St. Mark, lingering as the day stretched on into evening. 

Did… did Percy love her?

She thought he had, once. In their youth she had sought his affections and thought she had been making progress. She had spent several long months waiting for him to ask for her hand. 

She had destroyed all hope of them, then, and then he had found the legion, and the beauty of men… or so she thought.

Had he not gone around the world with her? Had he not agreed to marry her, to stay with her and build a family with her? Had they not shared intimate moment after intimate moment, exchanging secret words and heated touches?

But he had also avoided her as best he could, eschewing her companionship for that of his friends. He had only lain with her once, at her insistence. He had had to be convinced into the truth of his marriage, that they were a union, and not two people unhappily bound together. And those same, maddening words, the ones which had haunted her for months, ever since they had made camp in the ruins of Olbia, they rang so clearly in her ears: _no mortal woman._ The implication there was clear. Whatever interest he may have had, he had not acted on it.

However… 

Perhaps she had been… mistaken. 

A different sort of fear took over her then. Had she been mistaken? Had she missed such an obvious clue, and thus doomed herself to a life without love, all because of a silly misunderstanding?

She could not think on it for too long, lest she become consumed by the hurricane of her own fears and misgivings. 

Rather than take the river road, she chose to walk the rest of the way to their apartments in the eastern end of the city, the neighborhood they called _Castello_ , hoping beyond hope that her heart would have calmed itself by the time she made it back. 

It hadn’t.

Entering her home, she was first greeted, as always, by Freya the cat, who had, in the intervening years, grown even softer and furrier than she had been as a kitten, the tiny little puffball. Trotting up to Annabeth, her tail held high, she gave her mistress a perfunctory sniff, and a sweet little bump of her head, before darting off to commit untold amounts of feline mischief, as was her wont. Following her inside, then, her heart already softened, the next thing she saw was him.

Percy must have taken off work early; she had assumed he would still be at the port for another few hours at least. He had Alexandros with him, as well. They made such a wonderful picture together, father and son. When she next had a stretch of uninterrupted time, she would go about having this moment captured in perpetuity in a tapestry, a moment trapped in time and memory, just to make her smile. He had not yet noticed her, so taken with their son was he. 

Then she saw what he was doing. 

“There you are,” he said, popping another olive into Alexandros’ mouth. “Yes, they are your favorite, are they not?” 

In response, Alexandros gurgled, happily. He had spoken a few words already--”mamma” and the like--but he did not need words to express his joy at being given his favorite food.

“Indeed?” he asked, as though he were truly carrying on a conversation with his son. “Another?” He held out another olive to him, but Alexandros would not accept it, clumsily smacking his hand away. “Oh no? You are finished, then?” 

He shook his head, indicating Percy with his thick, chubby hand.

“What,” Percy gasped in delight, “you wish me to eat with you? Yes?” he asked, bringing the olive to his mouth in order to test his hypothesis.

Alexandros giggled, clapping.

“Oh, very well,” said Percy, his bright, beautiful smile like the glint of the sun off the water. “Since you insist, and since I love you very very much, I shall share this with you. Not a word of this to your grandfather, however--understand?”

Then he popped it into his mouth, and swallowed. Alexandros giggled again, smacking his hands together. 

“And here I thought,” Annabeth said, unable to keep her silence any longer, “you hated the fruit.”

To his credit, he did not jump at her presence. His smile did not fall either. “I think our son is more important than my father’s disdain for olives, no? Say ‘hello’ to mamma!” he bade his son, hoisting him up on one hip. 

Alexandros reached for her, his sea green eyes wide and wanting, and she took him into her arms, kissing his forehead. “Hello to you, too, _angele mou_ ,” she said, falling in love all over again. “I apologize for being gone so long.”

“It was no trouble,” said her husband. “We were able to keep ourselves entertained well enough.”

She recognized the look on his face well enough. It was the one he wore whenever he was overcome with love for Alexandros, a silly little grin crossing his face, his eyes soft and shining, his whole being exuding warmth and comfort. 

But he was not looking at their son. He was looking at her. 

She swallowed. 

Many months ago, she had asked Percy how he knew that his mother had reached safety, and he had responded thusly: that it was a matter of faith. 

Pressing another kiss to Alexandros, enjoying the way his face scrunched up at the odd feeling of her lips, she passed him off to the nanny who had been observing the scene from a respectable distance, whispering, though he could not understand at so young an age, that she would be with him shortly. 

Then she turned back to Percy. Still did he look on her with that same expression, softness and affection, care and comfort, home and serenity. 

A matter of faith. 

Stepping up to him, she slid her arms about his neck, and pressed her mouth to his.

He responded in kind. 

His hands immediately went to her hair, tangling his fingers in the free-flowing strands. He tugged on them, just a touch, but enough that as her mouth opened in a gasp, he was able to slide his tongue inside, and there she tasted all of him, felt the firmness of his body as he pressed up against her. 

_Yes_ , she thought, her senses full of the sea. _Yes._

Pulling back, he chased her lips with his, whining a little as she did not let him continue, and oh, how she wished to continue, but words had to be exchanged first. She could not be wrong again. She refused it.

“I love you, Percy,” she murmured, gazing deep into the waters of the ocean. “I love you, most ardently.” 

Those eyes crinkled in the corners, joy crossing his face in thick lines, like the faces of the saints on the walls of St. Mark. “I love you, Anja,” he whispered back, bringing her hands to his mouth, kissing the knuckles. “I have always loved you.”

Then, without further ado, he kissed her again, and she melted into the warm embrace of the waves.

***

The first thing she felt in the morning was soreness. 

She felt it everywhere, but she felt it most keenly in her stomach, pulsing out from the core of her into every muscle and sinew and bone.

No, not her stomach--lower.

She flushed.

Ah. 

With a groan, she rolled over, only to be met with the smiling face of her husband. “Oh,” she mumbled, still half asleep. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Annabeth,” he said. “How was your rest?”

Deep and fulfilling, for she had been pushed to the very brink of exhaustion by their activities the previous night, a fact which he most certainly already knew. “Well enough,” she replied, with an air of disaffection, and he chuckled. She could feel it against her chest, realizing, belatedly, that he wore no night shirt, cuddled so close together they were. “And yourself?”

“Wonderful,” he said, and he kissed her cheek. “Marvelous.” He kissed her nose. “Absolutely divine.” He kissed her mouth, running one hand gently over the bare skin of her side, and she shivered.

“Mmph, Percy--” The force of his kisses stoked the fire within her, and as much as she desired to give into it, she felt that there were a few things which required a brief discussion. “A moment, please.”

At her request, he pulled back, though he kept a hand loosely curled at the juncture of her shoulder. His fingers brushed against her, as though he could not stop himself from touching her the way he wished to, the way she wished him to. “Yes?”

“We…” By the gods, she could not focus when he looked on her like that, dark and arresting and wanting. “I--”

But she could not help herself, breaking down into giggles and laughter. Percy joined her, until the two of them were as children again, laughing at nothing and everything. 

“Oh, _perdono, perdono_ ,” she said, breathless with humor. “There were things I wished to say, I swear.”

“There will be time later for discussion,” he replied, a familiar heat overtaking his gaze. “Now there are different sounds I would have you make.”

Rolling her on top of him, he kissed her once again, his mouth hot and insistent against hers, crushing her to his chest, the currents of his hands running through her hair and buffeting her body. With great, great regret, she lifted herself up, pulling herself away from him, even as he rose up after her, eyes gleaming with such affection that she could not even fathom, as boundless as the sea that was his lifeblood and his birthright--she drowned in him, and she would be more than happy to die with him once again. 

“Percy, wait,” she said, firmly. She could not let this go on a moment further without saying her piece.

Obedient, attentive, loyal to a fault, he sat up with her on his lap, his fingers curled about her hips, tapping lightly, waiting for her. She touched him in kind, her hands about his shoulders, rocking back and forth on his lap as she tried to settle her nerves. 

“I…” She swallowed, raising her eyes heavenward. Old shame caused her cheeks to heat, mistakes long since made rising from the fog of the past, like mountains. “There is… something I must say to you. Please, allow me to say it in totality, and without interruption.”

Frowning slightly, nevertheless, he nodded.

To ground herself, she squeezed his shoulders, focusing on the swell of his bare chest as it rose and fell with each breath, indisputable, irrefutable proof of his life, of his life with her. “What I said to you,” she began, haltingly, “all those years ago--please, you must know I never truly wished you dead.”

“Annabeth--”

She squeezed again, more firmly. “I beg you, allow me my space to speak.”

Mouth twisting, he acquiesced. 

“When you disappeared,” she said, casting her mind back to that horrible, terrible time, “I--I thought I had left you to your death. You, the person whom I loved most in the world, I thought I had left you to tender mercies of some monster, and that in my moment of weakness, I had abandoned all that I had been taught by Chiron, Thalia, you, to never leave a friend in peril. For over a year, I lived in my shame and my weakness, and when you did return, miracle of miracles, know that I _was_ happy. I was so happy to know you were safe.” She could not count the hours she had lost to tears and sleeplessness and self-hatred. The year had passed as though in a terrible dream, in bursts of meaningless activity which she could not recall and had only served to render her even more miserable. To see him home once more had felt like the passing of a sea storm, or the healing of a wound, but then--”But when I saw the mark of the Legion upon you, I--I was so angry with myself, to think that I had spent all those months worrying myself sick for nothing, when you were as hale and healthy as one of our kind can reasonably consider to be… but that feeling, in itself, was childish and immature. I should never have thought those things, or treated you thus, yet I let my baser instincts take over until I pushed you away in the most vile manner, and for that, know that I am deeply, deeply sorry. I do not beg your forgiveness, nor do I deserve your love.” Then, taking his hands in hers, she kissed the knuckles there, as he had done to hers many times before, and closed her eyes against his face. 

It was not graceful, but it was the truth. She had never been so skilled with words, but she could not let another moment pass her by without her great confession.

Percy was, by nature, not a vengeful person. In that way, his mother’s influence far outweighed his father’s, so she was not surprised when he pulled her forward, and kissed her forehead. Opening her eyes, she saw Percy looking up at her, his beautiful gaze shining like the glass of Murano. “Of course you are forgiven,” he whispered. “Of course you are loved.”

“You forgive too easily, _kærasti_.”

“I most certainly do not,” he said. “But we were young and misguided in many things, and we deserve a little grace between us.” He kissed one cheek and then the other. 

“I do not want there to be anything between us,” Annabeth said. “no ambiguity or animosity. You must understand how much I adore you and always, have.” 

“I love you.” Even at such simple words, she felt her face grow hot, felt her mouth curl up in a smile. “I have loved you for so long, certainly since before we arrived at your father’s house, but, truly, for much, much longer than that--ever since I was a child.”

“You have?” she whispered, afraid to even voice the question, lest the fantastical words be ripped from her.

“Do you remember,” he said, twirling a stray curl about his finger, “the night of the Solstice festival upon Olympus? When we danced in the hall of the gods?”

Of course she did. She had been taller than him then, bless him, but they had danced together well into the small hours of the morning, to a song both sorrowful yet bursting with hope.

“That was the moment I realized that I loved you, and I have never, never stopped--not even during my time with the Legion.” His countenance changed, then, frowning lightly. “My only regret is that I did not tell you before I went with them. I should have said something on our way to Aachen, but, you must understand, I had nothing: no money, no employment, no--”

She placed her finger on his lips, silencing the stream of dour truths. “I know,” she said. “Of course I understand.”

“Never did I think that I could have this,” he said, around her finger, kissing the tip of it. “The gods saw fit to bless me with your hand and your child, and I would have been happy with no further.”

“But now you have me, too,” she responded--perhaps a little cheeky.

Percy liked a little cheek, she knew.

He grinned. “Oh yes,” he said, sweeping her close once more. “Now I have you, too.”

And if it were up to him, she knew, he would have her, again and again and again, a series of events to which she was not opposed. Yet, he had given her so much, his life and his love and his loyalty, and so he deserved something in return. Something she had never done for anything else. Something she never imagined she would do at all. 

His arms crossed the bare skin of her back, one high, one dangerously low. It was almost difficult to move, to shimmy herself out of his embrace and down, and not only because Percy was stronger than she. He must have made a valiant effort to control himself during their little heart-to-heart, for she could feel the hard press of his cock up against her, no doubt having been awakened by such a warm, friendly presence, rocking back and forth upon it. As he had done the previous night to her, so she did to him this morning, kissing her way down the planes of his chest, his stomach, his hips--a body worthy of Phidias, of the greatest marble-men and bronze-workers of the ages. 

“Where are you going?” he pleaded, petulant. “I have not had my fill of kisses.”

“Worry not--you shall have all the kisses you desire, and more.” Truly, he must have been a man of particular restraint and discipline, to have gone all those years without kissing her, so demandingly, so full of passion. To think that such a romantic had been lurking beneath the surface of the sulky, downtrodden boy who had stumbled into their camp! Certainly, she had never imagined that they two would be in this position, until one day, when she could no longer imagine being in this position with anyone else.

Both in the literal sense and the metaphorical.

Lukas’ betrayal and Percy’s disappearance had made things… somewhat difficult for Annabeth, in the realm of romance, and without Silena, her closest confidant, to help her make sense of her feelings, she was left to the whims of her own imaginations. Though she never acted on any of them, her imagination had provided her with many, many scenarios to dwell upon, most, if not all of them, featuring the man before her--and being pregnant had only made them even more intense. To have known his attentions so intimately, to bear the proof of it so obviously, made her dreams even more vivid and agonizing than usual, particularly since he was so physically close, yet so maddeningly far away. 

She had not had a chance to perform this on her wedding night, too burdened with hesitation and dread. Now that she had him as he had her, she would not hesitate. 

A student of art and architecture, Annabeth was no stranger to male anatomy--beyond the simple study of marble and body, she had grown up with a number of young men and women in very tight corners, which did not allow for much privacy. She was even no longer unfamiliar with Percy’s anatomy, having studied it quite extensively the previous night. 

Upon seeing it again, she could not help but flush, biting her lip. 

Percy was a proper man, with a proper man’s cock--small and perfectly sized, unlike the large, boorish, sex-crazed animals in the poems and drinking songs. He wielded it as skillfully as he wielded his sword, bringing her to greater and greater heights with each thrust. 

She should thank it for giving her a son, no?

Annabeth then wetted her lips, and kissed the very tip of him. Percy nearly jumped out of his skin, his knees knocking into her shoulders. “Anja!” he gasped, “what--”

But she would not let him answer, taking the whole of him in her mouth. 

For some time, she had him prisoner there, hypothesizing and experimenting and committing to memory everything he enjoyed, which twist of the tongue or pull of the lips brought the most broken, wrecked sounds from his mouth. At his sides, his hands flexed and unflexed, hypnotic like the tides, grasping at nothing but air. “Anja, Anja, _Anja_ ,” he babbled, breathless and writhing, and Annabeth found she was quite enjoying this. The taste was not so pleasant, but the sight of his head tilted back, his chin pointed to the sky, the strain in his muscles as he struggled not to thrust in her mouth so that she would not be so rudely interrupted, the control and the power--she liked that very, very much.

It was not long before he was pawing, clumsily at her head. “Anja,” he groaned, “I cannot--I cannot--”

Even this, too, was becoming more and more familiar, the state of him as he neared that point. She must have miscalculated, however, for it was not a moment later that she was forced to pull her head away, her mouth suddenly very ill-tasting.

Unable to grasp any sort of control, he spent himself in her hand right there and then, so forceful it even landed on her face, and in her hair. 

“ _Cazzo, cazzo, merda_ , _Anja_ ,” he sighed, twitching and moaning as he fell once more to earth. “Oh, _Anja_.” His chest heaved as he gasped for his breath, his limbs boneless and lax. On his face was a smile, sleepy and silly, his eyes closed. 

She gave him one more lasting caress, and he shuddered, whimpering.

Climbing back up the expanse of his body, she returned much the way she came, kissing each exposed inch, from stomach to chest to shoulders to neck, then meeting him once more at his lips. He groaned, his face twisting quite adorably at the taste of himself in her mouth. “If I must taste it, love,” she said with a smile, “then you must too.”

His eyes popped open, then. “No,” he said, “no, no, you mustn’t do anything which you do not like.” With some effort, he craned his neck to see her, his hands coming up to cup at her face. “Neither something to me, nor with me, nor for me. I will only see you brought perfect pleasure in our bed.” 

“You misunderstand me,” she said, raising a brow. “I did not dislike it. I did not dislike it quite a bit.”

A moment, then he blushed, divining her true meaning, and flopping his head back down. “I see.”

She tittered, feeling once more a girl of sixteen years old, in love with a boy and with the funny feeling in her stomach whenever he smiled at her. 

“As well, I felt as though I had a debt to pay for all the pleasures you performed upon me last night. I must say,” she said, nestling into the space of his shoulder, drawing her finger up the planes of his chest, “that was very well done for one who has never known a woman.”

He frowned, though she more felt it than saw it. “How do you mean?”

“What you said to me, all those years ago--that you had lain with ‘no mortal woman.’” It had been a phrase which had haunted her waking dreams, ringing in her ears like the bells of the churches on every street corner, frightening her into withholding the truth of her heart for far too long. 

An odd smile crossed his face, then, something far more smug and self-confident than she had ever seen him before. Percy lightly stroking the skin of her neck, she shivered, pressing into him. “No _mortal_ woman, yes.”

The implication of emphasis was clear. 

She leaned up on an elbow, incredulous. “An… _immortal_ one?”

Strange little smile, he nodded. 

Her heart thudded in his chest. An immortal woman. The pool of potential partners had just expanded considerably. “Well,” she said, perhaps a little shakily. “Look at you.”

 _Look at me_ , she wished to say. Look at me, so plain and mortal. Look at me, who spurned and rejected you, whose beauty shall fade in time, who will one day leave you, through no will of my own.

Curiosity overcame the greater part of her fear. “With whom?”

But Percy, sensing her turmoil, raised himself up on his elbow to look her in the eyes. “One day,” he said, soft and low, “I shall tell you the truth of it. I shall divulge every moment of that time, and how each one paled in comparison to the long, cold, lonely nights beside the _Danapris._ For now, however,” he reached out to tuck a stray curl behind the swell of her ear. “Now, let us have peace. There will be time later for talk--a whole life’s worth of it, and one I look forward to sharing with you.”

“A whole life’s worth,” she agreed, settling down beside him. Instantly, he turned his body towards her, his arm coming up once more to pull her close. “I cannot think of anything better.”

“Nothing?” he teased.

“Well,” she said, stretching her neck up towards his face, matching smiles adorning their faces, “not quite nothing.”

In truth, there was nothing more she required of him than this, his body beside hers, their fingers intertwined, and their hearts finally, finally, finally together.

But she would never say no to another kiss.

It took them the better part of the morning, but they did eventually find the strength to pull themselves out of each other’s arms in order to get dressed and rejoin the household. The feel of Percy pulling the laces of her stays made her wonder if perhaps her maidservant would find herself relieved of that duty. When he was done, he pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck, the feeling of his chapped lips against her skin inspiring yet another surge of heat inside of her which nearly forced her to rip her clothing right back off, but the dual promises of food and her son kept her from pulling him back to her bed.

The bed they would now share, she was sure. 

She found one of her veils, a white one detailed in blue that she had hoped her husband would like, and began wrapping it around her head. “Must you torture me so, my love,” he said, face set in an adorable pout.

“How do you mean?”

“Why do you insist on covering _even more_ of yourself?” As he spoke, he reached under it before she pinned it in place, and pulled several of her curls out of it. 

She giggled at his expression, strikingly reminiscent of the one which Alexandros wore when he did not wish to eat his sprouts. “You wish everyone to see me?” 

“Well, perhaps not all of you,” Percy admitted, his hand curling around her waist. “Some parts of you are mine alone.” He brushed his hand over the space where her feminine center lay, and even through her gown, it was nearly too much. “Yet, if it meant I never had to have it shielded from my view, I would not mind everyone seeing your hair.”

Pausing, she considered his eager, wide-eyed look. It was a little scandalous, but… there was not much work to be done outside of the household today. What was the harm? 

She stripped her veil away running a hand through her hair. Unexpectedly, it caught on something hard and crusty resting in her curls. Frowning, she pulled on her hair, confused--then when she realized what it was, she felt her entire face heat.

“If you insist on spending your seed in my hair, love,” she said, dryly, “then I will not be able to walk around with it uncovered.”

He flushed, too, dark and red, turning and retrieving one of her combs from her table. “Allow me then to rectify my mistake.” 

“Oh, no, no.” She waved him off. “As your punishment, I am going to keep it this way. But, as I am a respectable, married woman, and respectable married women tend hot to keep their husbands seed in their hair, it will be covered, for now, to teach you a lesson regarding aim and husbandly manners.”

Thoroughly chastised, yet still smiling, he set down the comb. “Might I… plait it, before you cover it, then?” 

Once he promised he would not attempt to remove his dried seed, she acquiesced.

It was not her boldest fantasy about the man sitting beside her, but she had long dreamed of the feeling of his hands through her hair. The only time she had experienced the feeling before had been the day he had cut all of it off. It had been quite the experience, certainly, and convenient in many many ways, but given his affection now, she vastly preferred this. 

He made quick work, weaving her hair into a rope, not as delicate or intricate as she might have done, but still, the fact that it was Percy doing the weaving, Percy tracing his fingers about the shape of the curls, Percy performing the act, made all the difference.

When he had finished, he tied it off with a leather strap, kissing at her hairline. “Please,” he murmured, “do not ever think that you are not the picture of wifely virtue in my eyes.”

A flattery, for Annabeth could not quite imagine what about her was the picture of wifely virtue--she had just insisted on wearing her husband's seed, for gods’ sake. She was neither deferential nor demure. She had broken his heart, and forced his hand, ripping him away from his life to deliver her halfway across the world, and then once more. Certainly he loved her. She knew that now, and could see it through their long years together. But to see her that way, when she felt so much like she failed as a wife, and could only now make it up to him with the full force of her devotion, was almost more than she could take. 

“When I have the best husband in the world,” she said, “to be a good wife is no great difficulty.” 

He paused and took her hand in his once again, kissing at her knuckles and then the palm, along a very old, once very deep scar. Then, her hand still in his, he led them out of the bedroom, and into their house. 

In some corner of her mind, she had expected just a little bit more of a reaction from the other members of the house. She thought the servants would have given them a suspicious look or two, or, at the very least, for Alexandros’ nurse to raise an eyebrow, yet neither strange word was spoken, nor odd look thrown their way as they walked their apartments, or sat down for their luncheon. In that state of utter normalcy, then, when they were done, they went to visit Alexandros.

Usually, Percy and Annabeth had often spent much of their time with their son alone, without their partner, as Percy was often at sea, and on his return, Annabeth rather felt she needed to leave them be, so that they could bond without any external influence on her part. Today, Alexandros sat between them, trading smiles with his father. They looked so alike, it warmed her heart. 

It always had, from his first moments, and even before, as she had been eager for her son to look like his papa, yet for the past year, there had been something of a painful edge to it, to the heavy knowledge that, while she had the love of her son, she did not have that of his father. It had been sweet and pure and perfect, yet bitter and cold as well. Now, however, as a family, real and whole and complete, she could not help but be overwhelmed with them both, with how much she loved them, and with the knowledge that they loved her in return. 

After an hour or so, in which Percy entertained her son with his menagerie of little animal toys, Alexandros turned to her, wide-eyed and innocent. “Mamma,” he said, grasping at her breast. “Mamma.”

“Are you hungry, my darling?” she asked, picking him up and taking him onto her lap, as she had dismissed his nurse when they’d come into the nursery. Now that he was on solid foods, he required less nursing on the whole, but his nursemaid also knew that Annabeth vastly preferred to do the deed herself, in something of a break with convention. She had not done so in the presence of Percy since Alexandros had been the smallest of newborns, on that ship, in the tightest, most unavoidable of quarters, and when they had reached Venice, and Nico had set them up at his house while they waited to find their own, Percy had left her alone to it. No longer bashful, she undid her lacings, and pulled down her chemise, and with very little effort, began to feed her son. 

Percy swept several of the toys aside, and came and sat with her on the little bench she held him on. 

“I am so happy,” he said, in a quiet voice, “that you have such a wonderful mamma, Alexandros. You deserve only the best--and you have received it.” 

She looked at him, and there were tears forming in his eyes. One like a crystal rolled down his cheek, and he made no move to hide it, or pretend it was not there. Percy was not usually one to weep--that was more her own purview, to her great chagrin--but she was pleased to see how he presented no shame at the thought of revealing his emotions. Good, bad, towering, subtle, a crashing wave or a gentle tide, after years of being deprived of his feelings through her own foolish actions, at last, she had them once again. 

“I love you,” she said again, unthinkingly, though she must have repeated the sentiment a thousand times before in the last few hours. She had wasted many a year by denying them both the truth, and so, she vowed, she would never withhold it again.

He smiled, face wet like the morning mist off the shore, moving closer, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, kiss to her brow. “And I, you.”

The day proceeded as naturally as possible from there, though they did not return Alexandros to the care of his nanny until the hour had grown quite late. Watching Percy hold him, as their little boy drifted to sleep in his arms, she was loath to part with such a wonderful picture. 

They laid him in his bed together, then, as soon as they had closed the door behind them, Percy picked her up, clear off the ground. She shrieked as she suddenly found herself in his clutches, though she knew it to be the safest of all possible places. “What are you doing?” she gasped, breathless with laughter.

“Holding what I cherish as close as I can,” he said, a touch dramatic, and swept her off to her bedroom. 

“You lovesick fool!” she cried, giggling as he practically bounded through the halls.

The moment the door had closed behind him, he dropped her on their bed, nearly ripping her veil right off of her head. 

“Please, take care--I happen to quite like the stitching on that one,” but he stopped her chiding in its tracks as he wound his fingers through her hair, dislodging handfuls of it from its braid, and pulling her mouth to his. 

“You have punished me long enough, I think,” he smirked, “and now I shall have my revenge.” 

His revenge was the sweetest kind. 

With a gentle hand, much lighter than she had expected, he unwound her hair, and, picking up her comb from where he had set it down earlier, went about brushing it out, the slow, sweet process of removing his leavings from their earlier intimacies. 

She winced as he pulled on a particularly knotty section. Of the many pains and indignities she’d suffered, her hair being tugged by her husband was not terribly high on any sort of list, though she was a bit theatrical about it. 

“A thousand pardons, my love,” Percy said. 

Oh, Annabeth could hear him say it a hundred times, and she did not think she would ever tire of those words. She had no wish to abandon their old, childish names for each other, but adorations such as these filled her with a lightness she had never known. 

“I shall need a thousand more” she said, “as you should not have spread your seed so liberally. Going forward, we shall have to clean it more quickly.” 

“I will endeavor not to pain you so,” he replied as he moved all her hair aside, planting a hot string of kisses along her neck that caused her to question the sincerity of such statements. Then, taking up a jug, he poured a bit more water on the hardened curls, reapplying the comb. 

“See that you do,” she said, “and that, in the future, you shall place your seed where it belongs.” 

“And where, pray tell, would that be?” 

He leaned in again to suck at the junction of her neck and shoulder and she moaned at the feeling, bringing her own hand to her center, rubbing lightly, before it grew to be too much, and she pulled away from him turning around to face him properly. 

Lifting her skirts to sit astride his lap, she said, “It belongs inside of me.” 

Wrapping one hand around the curve of his shoulder, she snaked the other between them, down to his breeches. And squeezed. 

“Yes.” he breathed, hot and heavy. 

“Oh, yes,” she agreed, short and clipped, trying to force her own breathless desire down for just a moment longer, “for if you do not spill inside of me, how am I to give you more sons?”

She leaned in to kiss him again, but he pulled back. 

Not far, not out of her arms, but away. All lust faded from her, replaced with concern. 

“You do not have to give me a single thing,” he said earnestly, raising a hand, and tracing her cheek with a sword-callused finger. 

“What?”

Sincerely, far more sincerely than his earlier promise of decorum, he brushed a stray curl from her face. “You have given me more than any man deserves--yourself, and our son. Please, please, my love, my dearest dearest Ana Zabeta, do not ever think I would ask any more of you.” 

His words took a moment to sink in, but when they did, they strung with the bitter bite of a poison dagger. “You… do not want any other children, then?” she asked, attempting to keep her voice level, her face calm, her pulse slow. 

“Do not think me to be so greedy,” he said. “My love, do not think I would put you through such pain and fear again. I have our son, and I have you. My only desire is for your health and happiness.” 

“But…” She knew not what to say, how to argue against this. If he truly wanted no more children, if Alexandros was to be their only one-- 

He went on, beseeching. “Yet do not despair, for I can love and pleasure you in a hundred ways which shall carry no risk. I can give you everything you desire, and you shall never want for my affection and my care.” 

“But I do desire more children.” It sounded petulant to her own ears, but, there was no other way to express the force of her wants. “Alexandros is perfect, his father is perfect--how can I not wish for more? Faced with such perfection, how can I not dream of growing our family, our home, our love?” 

He looked at her, his handsome features marred by hesitation and fear. “I… could not bear to lose you, Anja,” he said, softly, achingly gentle. “I only just got you. I almost lost you so many times before, either to monsters or to years of silly arguments and pointless squabbling. I almost lost you to pregnancy last time.” His voice shook as he spoke. “I, too, would love more children, but not if it carries any risk to you. You are too precious to me,” he breathed, tracing his fingers over her skin, so careful. So wonderful. “I could not bear it if anything happened to you.” 

She leaned over, kissing his cheek, small, quiet tears at the corner of her vision. His pains were so clearly evident, for her and caused by her, all at once. “It will not be so dangerous as you imagine,” she said, hoping to put him at some kind of ease. “By some great fortune, Will is here. Not only is he the greatest healer in the world, he has magic: ambrosia and nectar and all sorts of potions and pastes.”

But she could not dismiss his concerns entirely. Bringing Alexandros into this world had been a frightening experience, her fear and terror lingering even for months afterwards, slow to fade.

“I will freely admit it is not without any risk,” she said, after a moment, “but we have taken so many risks together, for us and for others. We have faced only the greatest of dangers, dangers that our mortal peers could never even dream of in their darkest, most terrible thoughts. Let us face this smaller danger together, with all the comfort of our house, and all the safety of the good doctor. And,” she grasped the hand that still rested on her face, and pulled it away, bringing it to rest on her belly, “think of the reward.” 

He swallowed, casting his gaze downward. “It would be great,” he murmured, reverent, speaking before an altar.

“The greatest,” she promised. “I can give you more sons, each one greater than the last.” 

“And daughters?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I--” He flushed. “Well--if I am permitted, then, to indulge in greed…” He pulled his hand off her belly, taking hers and bringing it to his lips, kissing it, just as he had over two years ago in Athens, when they had sworn an end to their hostilities, speaking faster, and with greater intent. “Whenever I thought of a family for us, I always dreamt of a daughter, of _your_ daughter, a little girl with all of her mother’s spirit, intelligence, and cunning, her strength of heart and her wickedness with a dagger.” 

“I see.” It had not even occurred to her. A daughter, yes, in passing, those things happened, but that Percy might wish it so strongly… “Yes,” she nodded. “We can work towards that, as well.” 

He slid a hand around her back, bringing her even closer, her chest flush against his clavicle, desire and worship in equal measure in the heat of his eyes. “Then let me give you as many sons and daughters as you wish, my love,” he whispered, a rumble in his chest she could better feel, rather than hear. “Let me see as many legacies of Athena as I can provide take Venice by storm.” 

And with that, he pulled her down onto the bed with him. 

***

“I hate the lost years,” he whispered into her skin, “but the truth of the matter is that I could not have made you a good husband when we were young.”

“Of course you would have,” she said, breathless, her mind mostly on his hands as they combed up her flanks. His skill with his tongue, his hands, his cock, it all had to be innate.

Still stroking her tender, he said, apologetic. “I had no means to support a wife. I _still_ have no means to support a wife. It is only due to a sheer stroke of luck that you possess enough means for the both of us.”

“I have looked at the accounts,” she pointed out. “In just two voyages you have earned back nearly all of our investment. Within a year, you and Nico will be clear and settled. You support your wife and your child quite well.” 

She’d almost said ‘children,’ but she did not wish to curry his excitement just yet. The midwife had not been so sure, and given Annabeth a whole host of other potential maladies.

Will had said it was not any of those things, but told her to feel for the quickening, and then they might all know for sure.

"You support us,” Percy said, “I merely work to make sure your money goes far. I do not mind,” he sat up, assuring, “It is not a question of some manly pride on my part. I am so very happy that you and Alexandros are so well cared for, and that you care for me, as well. That it must all fall to you, however, and that without our journey to Svealand, I would not be able to see you taken care of as you deserve, is what irks me so.”

“But I am,” she said, “I am well taken care of by you.”

His smile was too small and sad for such a happy conversation. “I love you with more passion than I believe some know to be possible,” he said, simply, “and I hope I take care of you in many ways. I pray that I am a worthy steward of your money, and that I represent you well when I use it on both of our behalf. Yet I must never forget it was you who brought such an asset into our marriage. We would have had nothing after the war with the titans, and I would have hated that.”

"I would have had you,” she told him, equally as simply. 

What a sweet thought! How they might have grown together in that time! How many children mind they have, now, if they had not gotten in their own way! 

“I would have worked my hardest to be worthy of you,” he said, all the earnestness of youth clear on his face, “but I fear you would have only ended up with the least eligible man in all of Constantinople.”

She laughed at his little jest.

He did not laugh with her.

Her laughter trailed off at his confused look.

By the gods, he was serious. 

“Need I remind you,” she said, “that you were the most eligible man in all of the _agoge_.”

“I was no such thing,” he said. “When my lack of any kind of material advantages showed, all women but you were rightfully scared away.”

Annabeth stared at him. This man. Her husband, father of her son, love of her life. A great hero, a brilliant strategist, the person she’d want with her in battle over all else.

And, she sometimes remembered, the occasional fool.

“Do you know how much effort I spent, Percy, seducing women away from you?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Oh yes.” And what a time that had been. “Most of the girls of our little village had their own money, you know. Katya had some truly wonderful land, I was told, and Tora’s father was simply dripping in silks and spices.”

“You… seduced them?”

“I did indeed,” Annabeth said, easy and straightforward. “I distracted them, made them think that a man would not be worth their troubles compared to the passion I could provide.”

It had not, precisely, been much of a chore. They had been beautiful women, all, vivacious and full of life. Clarice and Silena had been her own choices, of course, sweet childhood romances while she’d mulled over her feelings for Percy, but the women whom she’d engaged so they might direct their attentions away from the man she loved had proven to be sweetly entertaining nonetheless.

“You romanced Katya and Tora to get them away from me?” His eyes were wide, the blush in his cheeks winding its way down his chest, roses in bloom.

“Not just them,” she said. “Between our journey through the labyrinth and the great war, I must have bedded… oh, half the children of Aphrodite--save Silena, of course, who was too enraptured by Carlo by then. And then a few others.” It was truly a wonder she had not garnered something of a terrible reputation. Truly, the children of the gods were an enlightened few, unburdened by arbitrary rules. “You were quite the catch.”

He blinked again, his gaze very far off. “You must have been… very distracting.” 

His voice hitched, and she realized he might have been picturing it.

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “I was quite the distraction.” Leaning in close, she trailed a line of kisses from his jaw up to his ear. She liked the rough stubble against her lips, a feeling she’d only ever known from Percy. She’d long loved women, their smooth skin and sweet faces and musical voices, as friends and partners both, but she loved Percy, too. “Would you like to hear about it, my love? Would you like the stories of the women I seduced, so I could have you all to myself?” she whispered into his ear.

He whined, marvelously, his breath shuddering in his chest.

She would not give him all the stories today, as she had many to share. Before he went back out to sea, however, she would give him a few.

***

“Do not think,” Annabeth said, attempting crossness even as she lounged on their bed, “that I shall allow you to continue to put off your voyage this way.”

“Think you so little of me?” She could sense him attempting crossness as well, though he was far less accomplished at it than she was. “Which one of us can control the waves, again?”

“And which one of us has put off the extraordinarily lucrative Genoese shipment for the last two months?” she countered.

Percy shrugged one shoulder, jostling the bowl of olives awkwardly held in the crook of his arm, though he had remained in that position for at least an hour, now. “Giovanni does not require my assistance to move a few silks and spices ‘round the country. _L’Imperatrice_ is in good hands, I promise you,” he said, plucking a fruit from the bowl and feeding it to her.

 _L’Imperatrice_ \--the _Empress_. That he had named his flagship after the little canoe which had carried them together through to the ends of the earth, which had taken her name from Percy’s private little fantasy, it sent her heart on a strange little dance.

Annabeth should have been cross with him, truly. In all considerations of the situation, to defer and delegate such an important shipment to his mortal second-in-command who did not possess even a tenth of Percy’s skill with the waves in order to spend time with his pregnant wife, rubbing her feet and hand-feeding her olives, was a poor business decision. She should have been cross, yet, doted upon and loved and with a belly full of his children, she simply could not bring herself to feel anything less than perfect bliss, neither anger, nor irritation, nor even a passing annoyance. 

Yes, children. Will, the poor man whom they kept poaching away from the Conte di Angelo, suspected it to be two. Her treasures were many, and multiplying. 

She moved her body, just a little, repositioning herself on the soft bed. Though her pregnancy had been rather a dull affair, all things considered, as compared to the previous one, some things, unfortunately, had remained constant.

“Still,” she said, as she refused to give up quite so easily, “please do promise me that you shall go down to the docks to at least speak with the man before he departs.”

“I suppose I could,” he tilted his head, considering.

She narrowed her eyes. Having seen and catalogued all possible configurations of his handsome face by now, there was virtually no possible way to construe this one as sincere.

“Or,” he said, a lascivious grin crossing his face, his free slowly, agonizingly slowly, tracing random patterns on her shift and her skin, sauntering ever so vaguely downwards. “Or, I could spend the afternoon doing something infinitely more… appetizing, shall we say, than speaking to Giovanni.”

Percy, the absolute rapscallion, even had the audacity to lick his lips.

Damn him. Her sense memory was far too strong to resist.

It was only a matter of time before she gave in. She knew it, he knew it--to argue otherwise would only be prolonging the inevitable, driving their lusts higher and higher with impatience and anticipation.

So, then, she decided to prolong it a little.

She hummed, tapping her chin with a finger. “Allow me to think on it for a moment or two.”

“Of course, my love,” he murmured, his voice already deep and warm, the quality it only took on during activities such as these. His fingers had transported themselves from her collarbone and clavicle to the skin of her shin, dancing and tapping at the edge of her shift, occasionally crossing underneath the hem. “You shall have all the time you require.”

Tap, tap, tap, a maddening little dance he played on the bumps and ridges of her knee, so distracting she could not even focus on pretending to be uninterested, her hips moving of their own accord, ever so slightly.

As it happened, she did not require nearly as much time to decide as she had thought she would.

And she did not even mind terribly when the bowl of olives, overturned and spilled in haste, ended up on the floor.

***

For weeks, Annabeth had been dreading the birth. Twice the children, twice the trouble, she had thought, and given just how dangerous the last one had been, she had been wracked with nerves for days. Not even Percy’s presence, warm and soothing and solid, could chase away her fears.

Though, at the very least, there was no danger of Percy accidentally raising another typhoon.

“Much simpler than last time, no?” Will had commented in Greek, attending to Annabeth while he had his assistant wrap the babies. “I was, at the very least, expecting some sort of earthquake to send the city plunging into the lagoon.”

Percy chuckled at the good-natured jest, far past the point of chagrin. “To have you here the whole time has put me much at ease, _Dottore_ ,” he said. “If you are certain there is nothing more I can do for you as repayment--”

But he waved Percy off, wiping down an instrument. “Think nothing of it. I am always glad to assist old friends.”

“ _Scusatemi, signora_ ,” said his assistant, timidly, holding the newest members of their family in her arms. She had been somewhat scandalized when Percy had not made himself scarce during the birthing process, as was customary for menfolk, and though she had not been outwardly cold to him, or anything less than professional, Annabeth could sense she was still in something of a state of shock. “ _I tuoi infanti--un bambinetto e una bambinetta_.” 

Having already assisted Annabeth into a sitting position, Percy relieved her of one child, passing it to his wife, then took for himself the other. She had received the _bambinetto_ , the little boy, curly wisps of blond hair nearly invisible against his skin. Just as Alexandros had been, he was beautiful, tiny and wrinkled, yet sublime in his smallness, in the little hands which curled into fists, in the slow, sleepy blink of his gray eyes as he first ever beheld the light, beheld his mother’s face. 

Loving Percy had been an unexpected surprise, something for which she had neither predicted nor planned. Loving Alexandros had been something of a foregone conclusion, a soothing balm to her then-broken heart, and she had feared she would not have enough room in her soul for her son, so taken was she with his father, unwilling to exchange one for the other. Loving this little boy, however, and his sister, would be the simplest thing in the world. 

She turned to her husband, pleased to see the look of awe and delight on his face. “Well, _kærasti_? How fares you now, now that I have given you a daughter?”

So enraptured, it was as if he had not heard her.

The door opened then, with a creak, a small, dark-haired shape toddling his way in, past the reaching hand of his caretaker. “Mamma!” he cried. “Mamma!”

“ _Accidenti_ ,” muttered the Conte di Angelo, standing in the doorway. “A thousand apologies, Annabeth, but your little… _child_ … could not be contained.”

She laughed. “Worry not--I have heard more than a few similar such sentiments from his nanny.”

Clumsily, lacking all grace, Alexandros clambered up onto the bed, making to crawl towards his mother, until he was stopped by the nigh impassable barrier of Percy’s outstretched leg. “Careful, careful,” Percy said, sweetly. “Your mamma is resting.”

All wide eyes and curiosity, he crept even closer, his mouth hanging open in a child’s confusion, as doctor, midwife, and count exited the room, in the periphery of her vision.

“ _Angele mou_ ,” she murmured, “would you like to meet your brother?”

He did not respond, not so old yet that he possessed the gift of uninhibited communication, but he did peer, curiously, at the small thing in his mother’s arms. 

If she cast her mind back, Annabeth could not quite recall the first time she had ever met her brothers. Buried beneath the dirt and rubble of time and more pressing matters, she tried to remember if she had been excited to become an older sibling, to have some sort of sororal responsibility for her father’s new wife. Her situation had been quite different, of course; she had been old enough to comprehend what was taking place, and too clever by far for her to not feel some resentment, and in a fit of terror and rage, had taken flight into the unknown. 

Alexandros, perhaps, did not yet understand the matter, could not quite understand that these two little things were now his family, that his mama’s love and his papa’s attention would no longer be solely focused upon him. 

“This is your brother, Lukas,” she told him, the name she and Percy had agreed upon, a bygone memory of a friend and brother who had taken care of them both, and risen above all his failures in the end. “Can you say hello?”

“Loo-kas,” he said, reaching out a pudgy hand.

“Very good!” She was charmed far too easily by her children, but she simply could not help herself--it was far too sweet an image. “And that,” she said, indicating her husband beside her, “is your sister.”

If Percy could even conceive of a world outside of his daughter, now, he showed no indication of it, barely even moving when Alexandros made his way over to him, grasping onto his shoulder for balance. 

Hushed, she asked him, “Percy? Have you chosen a name for her?”

They had spent weeks agonizing over names for their newborns. Names had power, they knew intimately, and had to be chosen with great care. When it was determined she would be having twins, they had each agreed to choose one child’s name, to be shared with their partner, or kept a surprise. Percy knew the names for which she had a distinct distaste, and so she was not concerned he would choose something she truly hated, but she was quite curious. 

His gaze, green and glassy, was fixed on his daughter, a single tear falling down his cheek, his throat working as he summoned the will to speak. “Anja,” he murmured.

“Yes, my love?”

He turned to her then, his mouth trembling, the sunrise of his joy breaking on his face, warm and brilliant. “Her name is Anja.”

If her heart were any more full, it would burst right out of her chest.

“Then, if you are able to part with her, I believe Anja,” her voice hitched as she spoke the name aloud, the name of the little girl with blonde hair and gray eyes and all of her father’s love, “is in need of a little food.”

Percy nodded, bringing his little Anja to his lips, and laying a soft kiss on her blonde head.

Carefully, then, he passed her to Annabeth, making sure she was well situated in her mother’s arms, then he brushed a hand over Lukas’s head, as softly and tenderly as he could. This man could fight and kill, lead armies and win wars. His blood was that of the earth-shaker, the vengeful, the violent, who cursed and doomed any who would harm his children. Yet here he was, the absolute gentlest of fathers.

Little Alexandros, sweet thing, was drooping, sleepiness over taking his frame. Plucking him up, Percy transferred him to his other arm, so that he could be even closer to her, tucking Alexandros beneath one arm, and Annabeth beneath the other, his fingers playing with the ends of a curl or two. 

The lord of the sea could never be so soft, cradling Sarah and a baby Percy, nor the lady of war so affectionate, cuddling with Fredrik while they looked on their little Anja. All children of the gods emulated their parents, in ways both great and small, proliferated year after year, generation after generation, all their mistakes reborn alongside the heroes and the monsters and the stories. Yet, sometimes, they could break free of it. A daughter of Athena and a son of Poseidon could learn to trust each other, to love each other, to end the mighty rivalry of the heavens--and thus, in this way, they were already better than their parents, in the words of that old poet. 

Yes, she thought, as Anja and Lukas took their food, as Alexandros fell asleep in the crook of his father’s arm, as Percy stroked her hair, the thump of his heartbeat beneath her shoulder, beautifully, breathlessly mortal. Yes, they were better, by far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well... this got out of hand
> 
> final glossary:  
> • korie: maiden  
> • Karl Bonde: King Charles VIII of Sweden  
> • what's this? more smarthistory? you betcha! learn more about St Mark's Basilica [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fAgls5bGXs)  
> • it has been several years since i studied italian, i apologize for any mistakes 🙏  
> • yes i put in zag and than from hades game, what about it  
> • angele mou: my angel  
> • kaerasti: icelandic for "love"  
> • tora is drew tanaka... bc andrew ➡ strength ➡ tora, "tiger's strength"... listen, blame richard, ok  
> • if you're at all interested in learning more about the history of the byzantine empire, i highly recommend robin pearson's podcast, appropriately called [The History of Byzantium](https://thehistoryofbyzantium.com/), ft the most soothing english accent and vocal cadence known to mankind
> 
> for those curious, a map of all their travels!  
> 
> 
> many many many thanks to everyone who commented, esp those who commented multiple times!!!! percyyoulittleshit, AquaEclipse, acennabeth, rebecca, laughinginthecorner, Teddydora, Vicky, titaniumaviator, and biannabeth. thank you also to windbyfire ([tumblr](http://windbyfire.tumblr.com/), [insta](http://instagram.com/windbyfire/)) who was commissioned for the absolutely stunning art of the happy thalassinos family 🥺🥺🥺 look at themmmmm
> 
> lastly, absolutely none of this would have been possible without my dearest co-author, enabler, and friend, Darkmagyk, who sat patiently with me for several months while i slowly lost my entire mind yelling about obscure medieval geography. every day she sends me screenshots of the discord chat where i say, and i quote, "this probably won't be more than 40k" 😑😑😑 thanks i guess

**Author's Note:**

> at last, i finally have a place to infodump about the siege of constantinople!!


End file.
